


Mortal Man's Rapture

by shadowflame611



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, DHL was a slave and a POW, F/M, Slow Burn, So im sure you can imagine what may come up, Some probable triggers here, Tbh I'm totally winging this, The Strain - Freeform, the strain fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowflame611/pseuds/shadowflame611
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In her he found affection and intimacy and eventually love." - The Night Eternal, Interlude I</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Night

**Author's Note:**

> Exploring the possible dynamic between Quinlan and his wife. Several chapters in no specific order.
> 
> I do not own characters of The Strain. Contains book and (potentially) TV series spoilers.

 

There was a pheasant strung up along the far rafters, body swaying lightly in the draft. A wedding gift. Already feathered and bled, Quintus watched his new wife pause to stare at the tattered remains, her eyes darkening just the slightest. Then the slavewoman began to flay the thing, cutting deep in to splintered bone, utilizing all she could of the carcass.

With quick, sure movements she tossed the bird in to a boiling vat, set to cutting root vegetables. Her eyes never left her work, slender back turned toward the dhamphir, her posture businesslike but he could still smell her anxiety. She emptied half a tin of grain in to the pot with trembling fingertips.

The child, exhausted from the day’s events, sat on the bench and dusted her dirty toes against the smooth floor boards. She lay her head on her arm and rolled a smooth rock along the worn rivulets of the table.

Quintus remained cast in half- shadow, satiated for the moment by merchant he'd taken, wondering how long before his muted fascination with their mundane activities would stave off thirst. Already, he could hear the low _thum_ _thum_ of his wife’s heart, accented by the higher and faster pitch of her daughter’s. A rushed meal feeding never truly satisfied.

Finally the food was done, and the child eagerly poked her nose over the rim of the bowl before taking a rounded eating utensil, too large for her tiny hands. She cautiously sipped the broth, and the Born felt an unexpected surge in his chest as her eyes lit up with glee, “ _Momma_ , this-“

“Hushkt!” Her mother’s sleeves were rolled up past her elbows as she scrubbed at a dirty cooking vessel, her olive skin far more rich in appearance than that of any vampire. Naturally flushed, and even the angry burn marks of her work appeared beautiful in their own right.

The girl watched her mother through wild locks until the woman continued, “dinner first, then bed. We have duties in the morning.”

The girl set herself to finishing her meal, eyes dancing over the far shadows as her sharper human vision took in the pale plains of their new Master's cheeks. Looking curious, she opened her mouth as though to speak, but her mother noticed and descended upon her babe.

“You’re finished? Good. Bed, now.”

Quintus was left alone in the warm kitchen, a statue, thinking to himself. He took the girl’s bowl and placed it in the dirty basin. Taking the filthy rag in his own clawed hand, he set to finishing what his new wife had started, stacking the clean items on the table when he realized he wasn’t entirely sure where to put them.

He carried the dirty water far out, meaning to empty the vessel a good distance away so as to not tempt animals, relishing the cooled air against his burning throat.

Could he do this? Yes, he thought he could. There had to be a way; perhaps he could become accustomed to the way of life here. He would, at least for her lifetime, forsake his darker nature in favor of reaching toward uncharted territory.

He would be a simple man. Make an honest living, and provide for this raven-haired slave in all the ways he knew how.

As he neared the shabby building, a burning sensation jolted his mind back to the task at hand, and he rattled his stinger as he drew closer to the scent of his woman, impatient with himself. He would have to take care to hunt far beyond their land, wary of any neighbors.

The fire was stirred down to embers when he returned. The tiny home was dark save for the flickering light leading down to the basement, where he’d pushed aside the dusty shelves to deposit bedding. The lack of light did not bother him. He saw so much better in darkness anyway. He glanced at the child’s sleeping form as he passed her room and descended the stairs.

She heard him as he neared the bottom, straightened herself, wearing just her shift. Hair pulled over one shoulder to reveal soft, pulsating skin on the opposite side. She stood ridged, a woman welcoming her master to bed, face a stone mask of neutrality.

Hands fluttering to his own waist, he allowed the peasant tunic to slip off his lily-white skin, revealing much of him save for one detail behind the loincloth. He watched her as she chewed her lip, trembled at the sight of him, and a thought occurred to him then as he watched her teeth work.

_Please do not make yourself bleed._

She recoiled to the sound of his voice as though he had slapped her. Perhaps not the best thing to say on the beginning of their first night together, but Quintus doubted her reaction would have been much different if regardless of what he'd said.

Slowly, deliberately, she stopped her nervous gnawing, relaxing her pink and plump lower lip to yield an almost bored expression.

He studied her a moment longer before finally stepping forward, closing the space. She trembled, feeling his ambient heat, stinking of barely concealed fear and panic.

He moved his hand in an alien gesture, parting her hair, meaning to cup her cheek, to comfort her. To show her he would do no harm. But his digits just barely brushed her jawline before she reeled back, falling in to a submissive position on their bed with her belly and thighs exposed, and momentarily lost in her panic he had to remember to dig his heels in before he followed along with an instinctual reaction of his own.

Her eyes were wild with fear, unconcealed, as though he had just ripped the veil off her pretty face. “Please,” breathy, husky, begging, disobeying orders in a way that would surely get her beaten. “Please… don’t. Please.”

The once-gladiator stared down at her, the dominant one in all ways, a ‘man’ over his woman. He kept his face neutral even as something twisted painfully in his chest.

He tried to reach for her again, opened his mind to send her words of comfort, but she scooted further away, tears in her eyes.

There would be no reaching this woman. He could take her regardless. And yet...

He turned, took his robes and dressed quickly. Ascended the stairs, passed the sleeping child without acknowledging her presence, all the while still sensing his wife’s rapid heartbeat.

Was it his imagination, or was her pulse _mocking_ him? _‘stupid, stupid, stupid…’_

_'monster'._


	2. Cadence

As time passed, life began to settle in to a pattern.

His woman was one matter, stubborn and slow to trust. Communication between the two had dwindled to only necessary exchanges, which were very rare. 

The land offered a different type of challenge. Though it was well in to spring it seemed that winter still had it’s claws dug deep in to the soil. The matter was exacerbated by the thick tundra grasses with clinging roots which needed to be removed to expose rich loam beneath.

Quintus was a sizable man, and boasted significant strength. Still the ground fought his attempts to shape it, and it took over a week for him to till an area large enough where he felt satisfied. The labor was difficult, but a welcome change from previous occupations. After a few grueling hours he would remove the scratchy fabric of his top and let the cool night air lap at the heat rolling off his back.

He would work through the night. To feed he hunted several times per week, traveling both along the coast and inland as he stalked his prey, taking care to put distance between his new home and proverbial dinner table. Quintus would return most mornings and wait quietly for his wife to rise, then slip past her to the depths of his basement quarters, surrounded by yet more dirt and perfectly content in that.

—-

The child came down with fevers, and she expressed her discomfort with copious tears and cries for her mother. Still so young, she was unable to fully communicate her needs verbally and could not mentally manage her malaise. She slept in fitful naps, and often woke diaphoretic and shaking, her tiny hands open in a silent plea for comfort.

The wife held her child as she was wont to, hands stroking through matted hair, feeling the sick heat of her daughter’s skin. Her desperation mounted with passing days. She spent much of her free time pacing the floors of their quarters, mumbling in her native tongue. Her efforts were proving futile. None of the old remedies were taking effect. Despite forced feedings, the child’s tongue grew sluggish and dry. The rings beneath her baby’s eyes darkened, her skin sinking deeper in to her sockets. Despair began to gnaw at the woman’s heart as hope began to fade.

By the third night she was so overcome with grief that she ignored her master as he stood in the doorway. Her white-knuckled hands wrung the sheets as she prayed feverishly. Tears stung her eyes as she appealed to any god who would listen for her surviving beloved, the only anchor of sanity she had in this uncertain world.

That night Quintus postponed his tireless field work to travel farther up the coast than he had hunted before, his swift legs carrying him the miles without rest. He came across a group of trading caravans and offered some of his war-won gold for herbs, which the vendor swore would help. The dhampir reached forth with his mind, brushing mental fingers lightly against this human’s aura, searching the man for signs of deceit.

He left some medicine boiling in a small pot that morning, said nothing as he passed his wife and retired for the day to a still-warm bed.

He woke again to the muted sound of tiny footsteps tapping above his head. At the table, the child sat sipping plain broth. There was the faintest touch of color returned to her dark skin, and her heart, naturally a few beats faster than an adult, had slowed to a less alarming rate. An improvement. Not cured, but better.

She looked up at her guardian, eyes still foggy, and smiled.

He reached forth, aware that the mother was watching them from the hearth, and laid his comparably enormous hand on her fragile head. The child remained still, watching him, her smile unfaltering, until he withdrew and instructed her to finish her meal.

He then set to readying himself for the night of work ahead, pulling on his filthy boots, aware of his wife’s attention. Was he imagining less animosity from her? She had not openly faced him like this before, watched him with frank curiosity from across the room.

He left his women without further exchange and returned to the fields. He had picked up seeds to sow the night before from one of the caravans, but was honestly unsure at what point he should go about planting them. Admittedly those days he had a little too much pride to ask.

 —-

Too soon the sun began it’s daily climb, and it’s influence pushed the dhampir back to the confines of his home. The absence of his wife and the child in the kitchen area was somewhat concerning. He extended his senses and found them to be in the basement; descending, the child’s hummingbird heart rate combined with his wife’s heavy mental distress made him increase his pace.

The woman turned to him with a wretched look on her face. She sat with the child’s head on her lap, stroking her pale forehead. Quintus stood there a moment, observing the scene, before making his decision. He pulled a heavy coat from a large chest against a far wall, slung it over his shoulder on the way up the stairs and back out in to the abrasive light of morning.

If there was one thing that the dhampir had learned over the past centuries, it was that time was one of the more powerful forces on the planet. He knew enough to realize at this point that he had been naïve. He was unlikely to find the satisfaction he so deeply craved in a partnership that was forced. He lived under the constant influence of the woman’s dismal acceptance of their matrimony, and her fear of him.

His role had changed quite dramatically. His responsibility was no longer directed to the field of battle, but to two women. He had no want or wish to live lavishly; though he could certainly afford it, he had already been the honored guest in many castles. Here, he could create life rather than destroy it. Could nurture something. Build a life of his own. Even if he could not win her heart, he was determined to have her respect through his commitment.

But true respect was not so easily earned, especially in the face of fear. He often heard whispers from mind.  _Beast_ , she thought when he turned his back. _Demon_. She did not know how deep the truth of her assessments ran.

The slavewoman watched the door for several long moments, her dark eyes glazed over with exhaustion. She shifted her weight on the bed, leaning over her child, adjusting the blankets. The babe barely stirred beneath her touch. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she leaned forth and pressed her lips to the girl’s sticky temple, inhaling.

She did not want to move the sick child. It must be morning; her so-called husband seemed to have an aversion to light, and mechanically went about the same predictable work-sleep pattern without much deviation. In all honesty, he never asked much of her. However, leaving the babe here unattended with him was not an option. That is, if he would allow her to stay.

She did not know exactly what he was; she was unable to read, and had spent a considerable amount of time combing through the memories of her childhood, of home, trying to find an explanation. She had heard stories, diluted in her memory, which may fit his description. Possibly.

An unknown demon was the worst kind. Until she knew his true nature, she would die before she allowed the girl to fall victim. It was a rule inscribed deeply in to instinct: a mother protects her child at risk of her own well-being.

 Descending footsteps announced his return, and the wife straightened. He moved without preamble across the room, straight for them. Instinctively she moved to cover the child from sight. He paused, unmistakable deep voice echoing eerily in her mind.

_Come. We must go._

Without further explanation, he took her by the arm and brought her to her feet. Bending at the knees, he lifted the child in to his arms. Acting on impulse, the woman grabbed at her husband’s firm forearms, attempting to pry her precious one from harm’s way.

He shook her off as easily as he might a ragdoll.  _Enough. She needs help. Gather provisions for yourself while I settle her._

_—-_

If he waited till dark, the caravans would have chance to move even farther away. Quintus did not know how long they were staying in the alcove, or how long they had already been there. Regardless, it was imperative that he act now. The dhampir was well-acquainted with death. Sickness was a secondary effect of war. Humans gained a certain scent to them the faster they circled the proverbial drain. The child reeked.

He pushed the horses to a faster pace. They tossed their heads. Beasts had never been completely at ease with him, and these animals could sense his mounting impatience. He would be much faster on foot, were it not for the obvious baggage. Behind him, the woman eased herself to a more comfortable position to combat the rattling of the trailer.

The sun set and rose again. The creature driving the front pulled his hood tighter over his eyes at as the light heightened to noon, hunched forward. The growling sounds he made were more guttural, punctuated with frequent clicking sounds of agitation. The child stirred in her mother’s lap. She dribbled water on to her cracked lips.

It was late in to the second evening that the horses finally halted. Weight shifted in the front as Quinlan dropped to the ground. He pulled a filthy burlap sack from his wife’s side. It shook with the tinkling sound of coin.

_Wait here._

There were campfires in the distance. The wind carried the voices of men. Her husband had disappeared almost instantly, melting with the shadows. He was gone for a while. The girl coughed weakly.

She heard the telltale clicking of his throat before she saw him, and stood beside the wagon. He materialized from beneath the trees on the far side, away from the direction of the men. There was an odd rigidity to his stance as he seemed to regard her from several meters away.

She could not contain the question from pouring fourth. “Are those men doctors?”

His silence was deep, unnerving. Moonlight kissed his pale skin, brought his face out in startling contrast against the dark fabric of his hood. She became aware of an almost animalistic air to him.

“Did they give you more medicine?”

Still nothing. Something was amiss. Their exchanges had always been short but polite. Was he ill?

Her stomach sank. The travelling had rekindled the dying embers within her chest, giving her grasping hands purchase as despair threatened on the horizon. The past few days had been a constant seesaw. The first round of medicine seemed to work.

Defiance flared within her, and she straightened her back as she faced him. She would not give up. They had come too far for this nonsense. She pulled a light shawl from the “provisions” she had packed, and turned to leave.

“Very well. I shall speak to them myself and see if they can-”

His grasp startled her, fingers bent around her bicep like hot iron. The words died in her throat, ended in a small moan as sudden terror deflated her courage.

He let go as though her reaction burned him.

_The vendor receives his goods from a medicine man located across the waters. It is a half day’s sail._

She withdrew from him and his abrasive heat, took half a step back and bumped her hip in to the wagon.

“ _More_  travel?”

He said nothing, fixed her with a red-eyed stare. This close, she noticed the faintest red flush across his cheeks.

She trembled, though not with fear of his wrath. “She will not survive another trip!”

_I will leave the decision to you. However, I believe she will not survive without further intervention._

“That vendor of yours could be leading us astray!”

_I have my methods of determining honesty. He believes this is the child’s best chance._

Her gaze turned, fell across the sleeping babe. She shifted nervously on her feet.

“How does any of this benefit you?”

_You are my wife. She is your child. It is my responsibility to ensure your health and safety, to the best of my ability._

“But  _why?”_

He ignored her question.  _You must make a decision._

_—-_

The boat, of modest size even without the dhampir’s presence, was easily influenced by the more powerful waves. It rocked precariously, lurching in tempo with the ocean’s demands. Quintus sat at the stern, attempting to force his focus anywhere but his current predicament.

His focus flitted across his company. The child slept, her breathing even. The fisherman sat at the front and directed his vessel, seemingly unperturbed by the ocean’s rage.  His wife sat vigil over her child.

Everything beyond this loose piece of driftwood was a vast, empty, swirling nightmare promising a fate worse than death. The boat tilted, and he dug his fingers in to the wood. His talon, gone a few days without being properly filed, sank several centimeters in to the hull as he held on. There was a pounding in his head, between his temples; the earth his vampiric brethren fancied called to him shrilly, drawing white-hot nails of agitation up his spine.

If he could vomit, he probably would have. As it was, he was having a hell of a time keeping himself from clicking and hissing his discomfort. Though Quintus fancied himself stoic in the face of many challenges, he had always found bodies of water particularly erosive to his resolve. To add insult to injury, the apparent lack of structure on this flimsy boat was truly challenging to his endurance.

Over an hour had passed, and he hunched over, misery beginning to slip through fissures running deep in to his normally cool composure. His stinger twisted painfully, and more than once he reflexively tensed his throat and scraped thin sores in the roof of his mouth.

From her perch, the dark-haired woman observed as the creature slumped in his seat. Even in a time of apparent weakness, it held a regal air to it.  Slumped shoulders, and yet the strength rolled like a palpable force off his back.

The ride back to land was proving to be a bit more rough compared to their first short sail. Still, she had experienced much worse. It was obvious this creature was not used to such journeys.

They had traveled far. She had been, as always, wary of her master’s intentions. However, as her recovering daughter slept soundly to the side, tucked securely in the safest part of the boat, she began to wonder.

His body always sang to her in the strangest ways, warned her instincts of great pain with prolonged contact. Yet, it was rare that she truly felt threatened by him. She knew him to be a great warrior- she had heard legends of such Ghosts. But the stories clearly stated that such creatures had always feasted on their prey—body  _and_  soul— with great appetite for suffering. This one sensed her displeasure, and consequently kept his distance. He provided. He had only once asked for something in return, and accepted her refusal.

 She thought, at first, that perhaps the creature had taken her as a caretaker for her daughter’s virgin soul. It might even explain the trouble they had underwent this journey. Yet… there was a stirring within her, a human feeling, which reached forth and suggested otherwise. As she beheld this creature, growling softly to itself, too proud to fully embrace misery, she experienced a moment of lucidity, a brilliant note of clarity.

For the first time, she identified with her husband.

The creature, the Ghost, the man- it was sitting, disheveled, afloat on a raft of rotting driftwood… alone. The loneliness was not limited to a physical sense. No- this was a shadow, a mark upon his soul, a burden carried, a visceral feeling of separation which set him apart from so many.

Not too long ago, she had felt something similar. A victim of gruesome raiding, she had held her squalling child to her tear-stained bosom as they dragged her lover’s body from the cells. She was familiar with what it was like to feel so separated from any semblance of home that the only way to escape insanity was to retreat within.

She had asked him why he endured the obvious pain of their travelling. He had opted not to answer. Her assumption was that his intentions were malicious. In hindsight, such thoughts seemed rather unkind. Did he not provide for them? Was she not safe from others in his presence? His attempts at farming were clumsy; she had used her own limited knowledge to attempt to rectify some of his mistakes in the field. But he was obviously putting much effort in to their land.

He kept them well-fed. Respectfully kept his distance. Left small sweets for them on the table, which she had always tossed away.

And now, here, he had dragged them along through miles of rugged terrain to save the life of the one most important to her. Had spent a hefty sum of gold to ensure the medicine man did his job (though intimidation might have worked just as well).

During the one night they had stayed, she caught a glance of him out pacing in the sand along the shore. He did not like the water. Did not like the sun. Yet he had endured both- for them. He had called them his “responsibility.”

Her vision blurred at the edges. She swept a thin wrist across her eyes and stood.

Quinlan distantly sensed movement, and pulled his attention toward the bow to watch the woman leave her child’s side willingly for the first time in days. The coming eve gave his eyesight greater focus; her raven hair whipped frantically in the salty wind as she half stood, sliding her hand along the boat’s side to steady herself as she approached him.

This sudden change of behavior was so unlike her that his initial response was to glide his psyche over hers. He tasted nothing sinister in her intent. On the contrary… his curiosity was fast retreating, replaced with confusion. Coupled with his current state of malaise, Quintus’s mood was far too sour to want her company. He drew himself up sharply, righted his legs so that his feet were settled more firmly on the deck.

_Back, woman._

She flinched in the same way she always did when he spoke to her, but seemed otherwise undeterred from whatever she was bent on doing. He growled, drawing the noise from deep in his chest; an international sound of warning.

Her response was to narrow her eyes and stubbornly continue, though at a slower pace. He pried his talon from the boat’s side and pounded his fist in to the wood for emphasis.

_Enough! Return to the child._

Still, she pressed forward. Extended her arm to him.

For some reason, an unfamiliar sense of anxiety washed over Quintus. Reacting on instinct, he drew his shoulders back and extended his neck. His jaw unhinged with a painless cracking sound. With his mouth this far open, the growling sound emanating from within gurgled loud enough for the fisherman to glance nervously back.

She was quaking as she finally reached him, within easy range of his stinger. Her trembling fingers touched his taut cheek. She traced a line down, and the cool feeling of her touch drained the tension in his shoulders. After a moment, he eased his mouth closed.

He watched her. For the first time in so many years, he was completely unsure how to react. Her dilated pupils betrayed her fear even as she held his gaze. Her touch moved back up his jaw- a comforting gesture?

She opened her own mouth then, tilting her chin up slightly. His attention redirected to the pulse in her neck for a moment.

Then she begin to sing, the smooth alto of her voice escaping to the wall-less space beyond them, the alien language causing something in his chest to twist almost painfully.

She finished her song. Holding his gaze a moment longer she wet her lips and retreated back to her child’s side, settling to the familiar picture he had grown accustomed to the past few days.

His hand went to this throat. He felt many conflicting sensations. He needed to separate- to ponder this reaction away from the source, and yet could not.

The remainder of their travels were conducted at a much easier pace. By her suggestion, they traveled only by night. The dhampir and his human wife settled back in to their usual state of silence. The child’s voice joined them once again, strengthened by the food in her belly.

The mother lay with her babe in the wagon, pointing to the stars. She told her stories of her people, legends illustrated by pictures in the velvet sky. As he listened to her voice, Quintus absentmindedly rubbed his knuckles up and down his sternum, remembering the strange, almost painful sensation he had experienced on the boat.

He wanted to feel that way again.

He wanted to hear her sing.


	3. Discovery, part 1

Outside their home the wind howled like a discontented animal.

The dark woman sat at the table and worked on repairing a large tear in an old blanket. The past two days had been long, spent confined to the relative safety of their home. She was nearly at her wit’s end, used to a constant flow of chores, always in motion.

She had already cooked plenty for the time being- as it was, the pantry was beginning to empty, and she wanted to portion the leftovers. Her husband never ate what she made and it had been months since she last left a plate out for him. The house was clean. The child was occupying herself. And so she had been left searching for something, anything, to busy her hands.

The creature stood at the far end of the room, next to a window. He stared out in to the inky blackness, unnaturally still. Even he seemed stretched thin; there was a tension in his shoulders betraying his muted agitation. The child had sensed this long before her mother; she kept her distance from him today, mumbling in the corner to an assorted group of smooth pebbles and shells from the shore.

He seemed restless, had said something to the effect of needing to leave the house and collect food. While the woman couldn’t follow his reasoning, she didn’t see any benefit in arguing. A few months ago, she may have agreed just to grant herself time away from his presence.

His company was beginning to feel normal. The clicks and purrs he made were background noise, and did not grate on her as they used to. Even the heat he gave was welcomed as the weather turned. He came in as the sun rose smelling of damp Earth; there was a musky, masculine scent which followed him about the rooms, strange without the tang of mansweat.

He was packing a small satchel to leave when a particularly strong draft blew one of the trees down. It’s branches made contact with the roof, piercing a hole through the shingles before gravity pulled it to the sodden ground with a screech of protest. Freezing air raced in to the kitchen, scattering the fire, leaving them in near darkness. The woman yelped in pain as she stepped on an ember trying to get to her crying child. She bent, feeling about blindly as she attempted to navigate but was hauled upright by her husband, who had already retrieved the babe. He placed them in the doorway, partly in to the elements but away from the smoke as he cleared the immediate danger.

He let them back in and could be heard banging outside the house for hours in the night. He began with the hole in the ceiling, hauling wooden limbs from the area with immense strength before placing a temporary patch.

She made sure that he returned to a clean kitchen with a new, smaller fire burning. She left him dry robes, which he took with a solemn nod and headed to the empty child’s room to change.

He did not mention leaving the house again. The Berber wife couldn’t completely suppress the sense of relief she felt as he settled himself in the far corner. It was obvious his plans had been postponed. She placed his soggy boots near the hearth and let the damp scent of his flesh fill the small space.

The dark lady had gone to bed with the child that night, leaving the basement for him. She left him reading at the table. By the next morning, it was apparent that he had moved very little. The windows were framed with the condensation of his added heat. The book was closed, pushed forward. Her husband sat stiffly, his rufescent eyes glazed over and pointed at the wall unseeing.

She had never felt much of any emotion from him one way or another, and the proverbial dark cloud he emitted was pushing her anxiety higher. As the hours dragged she’d thought that perhaps working on the blanket- having something to do- would ease her restless mind. Turned out she was wrong. Nerves made her hands clumsy, and eventually the bone needle stuck her right in the meat of her thumb.

Making an annoyed sound, she brought the tiny blood droplet to her lips, sucking on the cut. With her free hand she readjusted the fabric in front of her, re-folding the area she intended to sew.

She was just about to begin again when the growling began, low and gurgling, then increasing in tempo till it rattled her bones. Her husband had turned to her with a thunderous expression. In the firelight, the deepening circles under his eyes were highlighted with shadows. He twitched his dry, cracked lips, baring needlepoint fangs in a doglike manner.

At the sight her heart stuttered, dropped to her stomach. Suddenly, the temperature in the room was suffocating. She became hyperaware of how cramped the space was, and his position blocking the exit.

The child played on, oblivious.

She removed the hand from her mouth and cleared her throat, straightened her back against the compulsion to flee.

“…Have I upset you, master?”

That seemed to soften him. The skin between his eyes relaxed a bit. In the moment she had been so distracted by his gaze that she hadn’t noticed till now the tight coils of his thick, rope-like musculature. His stance had been similar to that of a cat ready to pounce; his fingers were spread and hooked at the ends. He clenched them to fists as he caught the direction of her gaze, and with a strange display of effort stood upright once again.

He exhaled with a deep grumbling noise.  _Have you nothing better to do than to work on that wretched thing?_

Confusion trapped her tongue for a moment. Such much animosity over a blanket? “If it offends you, I can stow it away and busy myself elsewhere.”

He made a sudden movement, hand cutting through the air in a slashing motion. The voice in her head was taut with aggravation.

_I would offer you anything you desire, yet you choose to cling to these… artifacts.  Toss it away. I will bring you something new once this storm clears._

She felt the rebelliousness that her mother had always warned her about rise to the surface. For a fleeting moment, she forgot about her place in the household. The thought of getting rid of this thing, the blanket that had followed her here and that she now wrapped her child in- felt like the anticipated loss of an old friend. She twisted it between her hands, knuckles showing white, the word escaping her before she even had a chance to quash it.

“No.”

Red eyes narrowed to slits. He huffed hot air, seemed completely unimpressed with her newfound bravery. Two white hands appeared from beneath his robes, came forward and clutched the back of the chair before him. The wood groaned under his touch, made small crackling noises.

_I beg your pardon?_

Any boldness she had felt was now a distant memory, dissolved to thin air as she cowed under the weight of his gaze. A few moments passed in relative silence as she pushed through the jumbled mess of her thoughts and attempted to form a coherent response. Her mind felt bogged down as though covered in sludge. In the very depths of his eyes she could see an animal pacing in it’s cage. She could not hold his gaze. Would not be able to deny him any request.

At this point the babe had finally caught a whiff of tension. She sat in the floor, pile of pebbles forgotten for the moment.

“Mama?”

The pale man twitched, his hands unclamping from the chair. His attention directed toward her.

The child was receiving many mixed messages in that moment. But at her age, many of her thoughts and actions were dictated by trust, and she felt no fear. She reached to the side, picked up a shell, and with it balanced in her tiny palm, held it out to him.

He took a step toward her, his throat slowing it’s aggravated clicking. The girl’s mother made a small noise, and he stopped his approach.

The babe smiled as she felt his mind tickle over hers. She opened her psyche, showed him the little house she had created from her perspective, and after a pause felt a rush of approval from him.

 _Good,_ the whisper in her mind was soothing in it’s familiarity.  _Now, build a home for the horses._

He left the girl to her task and turned back to his wife, watching her eyes dart back and forth between him and her child. She did not hide her disapproval well. Then again, he had nearly lost his temper a moment ago- he could not blame her for feeling threatened.

Calmer now, he picked at a loose end of their conversation, indicating the ragged item still clutched in her hands.  _Material objects often hold pleasant memories of times past._

She looked down a moment. “Yes. It is very important to me.”

_Realize that its presence does not change the reality of what life in your home town has become._

She closed her eyes against the stinging sensation his words brought. “Still. It brings me comfort.”

Something in her words seemed to catch him off guard. His face went slack.

She misread his expression. “As I said, if it’s presence offends you, I am willing to put it away.” She paused, considering her next words. “I would… I ask that you do not make me throw it out.”

After a long moment of stillness, he turned on his heel and walked to the basement door.

_Very well. Keep it, then._

—

Night passed in to morning. The rain and wind continued. The dark woman, trapped in the small building with her child and disturbed husband, was beginning to fear that they would face a flood. No doubt the crops were ruined. They would have to find other means to maintain the lives of the few animals they kept as livestock. That is, if the creatures survived the storm.

She fed her child supper, bathed her in warm water she had heated in a large cauldron. She then sat her down, brushed her hair, and was working on a braid when her husband surfaced from the basement, his movements a bit sluggish. As he passed near them, his breathing hitched and he made a sharp sound- one so natural that the dark woman didn’t acknowledge it as unusual until the babe piped up in her high voice, blessing the demons away.

He ignored his wife’s stare, sat heavily in his chair by the doorway. Turning his head, he seemed to consider his boots in the corner. Then he clicked softly and put his head in his hands.

“Sick?” The child was swinging her legs beneath her, calloused soles of her feet making little scraping sounds on the floor. He didn’t answer, least not that the woman could hear.

After a minute, the babe scooted off to play before bed as her mother stood to tidy the area. Minutes passed in relative silence. She considered her husband from across the room as she worked. His pale skin looked brittle and markedly more wrinkled, like old leather. She couldn’t see his face, but his general posture made him appear unwell. Perhaps the exposure to the elements the other night sapped him more than she thought.

She frowned and faced him from across the table. Was she feeling concerned for him? Her moods had become more labile over the past few weeks, leaving her conflicted.  He had done quite a bit for ‘his women,’ sometimes at his own expense. It was proving difficult to overlook such commitment and continue reinforcing the distance she’d set up when he simply did not give her reason to carry on in such a manner.

Yet when she opened her mouth to voice concern, the words filtered out in her throat, and she defaulted. “Master… I fear we might face flood if the rain continues as is. Where would we go?”

He didn’t move. But his voice did enter her head, strained.

_Please, woman. Not now._

Very well, she thought. She picked up the dirty eatery and submerged it in her washpail, scrubbing it clean. As she worked, he sat with a silence far deeper than she could ever recall; he was not making his usual symphony of alien purrs and clicks. There was something off in that… and in the way he turned his head away whenever she passed by him.

She was focused on wiping crumbs off the table when his sudden movement startled her. Weakness gone, he stood with such speed that his chair rocked on it’s hind legs. His growling reverberated about the room in the moments before there was a sharp knock at the door.

The child came out of her room, bare feet slapping against the worn wood. “What-”

But she was silenced as her mother ushered her back in, sat her on the bed, and instructed her to stay put.

The dark-haired woman left her child in relative safety as she padded cautiously back to the kitchen to find it empty.

–’

It didn’t matter how many layers she wrapped herself in- the wind was severe. Coupled with the rain, she had been soaked three paces from the door. Howling storms she could handle, but the chill of this particular weather was ungodly

 In the faint light of her lantern she could make out dim shapes within their small barn. She had been hard pressed to leave the child behind, albeit hidden, and venture outside. But nearly an hour had passed and nobody had returned to the door- not her husband or whomever had knocked.

It honestly was not her place to be looking about, but she was curious. For that matter, she told herself, what if this person meant harm?

Ridiculous. Her husband was like the lion. A warrior. Built proud, with an intimidating and confident air. And she had seen his strength.

But he had seemed subdued, almost ill, throughout the day. He had recently acted abrasively toward her, which was unlike him. Would he be able to handle a scuffle?

The door swung closed on well-oiled hinges. The inside air was dry, warm. She reached out blindly, her fingertips brushing against bristly hay. She steadied herself against the solid object, waiting for the lantern flame to grow.

The animals were eerily silent. She swallowed thickly, then called out to her husband. The darkness swallowed the sound of her voice and offered no answer.

She made her way forward, felt the post of the goat’s pen. In the poor light beyond her lantern she could just make out a shape toward the back corner. She chittered at it, and it moved slightly, but did not come toward her.

The manure smell was strong here, laced with something else familiar. Earthy, something with a zing to it.

It grew stronger as she approached the back wall. Squinting in the darkness, she could just make out a form on the floor. Dread filled her as realization rose on the horizon, and she began to recognize the shape.

She almost did not have the courage to turn his face. But she did anyway, carefully. The body was still warm on his trunk, but the once-tanned skin had a sickly pale appearance. His lips were a pasty bluish-white, eyes open wide in an expression of terror.

The body still moved easily. Fresh, and apparently exsanguinated. But no blood on the floors, and no mortal wounds that she could see.

Her heart beat furiously as she stood and backed away.

—

Quinlan moved through the woods. He’d had to walk to get his innards moving again after that feeding- had gorged himself a little too quickly.

Of course he’d been days without feeding before. In the past he had always been able to separate himself from non-pray so that no errors were made. Here, under current circumstance, he couldn’t be rid of the women if he tried. Their living quarters were too small. The longer he went without feeding, the more their heartbeats called to him.

Periods of hunger left him weak, broke his body down. He became more susceptible to slip-ups, and also had a harder time maintaining the strict control he always had over himself. He had to remove himself after snapping at his wife, the flames of anger borne from thirst wearing at his resolve. His nature was no fault of hers.

He should have left to feed, had planned to, but this storm was particularly aggressive. Not only did he have to fortify the house once, but trees had fallen on the land. He wouldn’t leave them with the possibility of that danger repeating itself- or worse. Floods were a high possibility, especially after this third day of rain. He feared not only a flood reaching them, but also felt concern over the idea that if he were to leave he may be blocked from returning.

Luckily with his aversion to water he had thought far enough in advance, and had their home built on higher ground. Still, the distant sound of crashing waves over the wind had him returning back to his women, feeling satiated, the cramps in his abdomen beginning to ease.

He found her sitting at the table, her hair a frizzy halo about her temples as it dried. The child’s door was closed. Her fingertips trembled even as she held her hands folded before her. Quinlan immediately sensed her disquiet, stood dripping water on to the floor.

She spoke softly, keeping her voice carefully neural. “There’s a dead man in our barn.”

She did not expect a reaction from the creature, and did not get one.

“I would worry about the safety of my child, with your absence with an apparent murderer in our midst.”

_I have taken care of the situation._

“Who left the body there?”

He was silent, long enough that she began to think he would not answer.  _I think that you know._

She licked her dry lips, shifted forward as she attempted to collect herself. Before she could speak, however, his voice entered her head once again.

_I have never claimed myself to be free of sin._

“You never claimed yourself to be much of anything.”

_Too much insight would push you farther away. I do what I must to survive. To sustain myself._

“Demons must take life to live themselves.”

_Is that what I am?_

Her tremors increased as she asked the burning question: “what are you going to do with us?”

He dropped his gaze to the floorboards, chose his words very carefully.  _You are in no danger from me._

She stared, watched the steam coil from his bare skin. He hadn’t answered her question. After a few long moments, it was apparent that he wouldn’t.

She stood. The wooden legs of her chair scraped the floorboards, an abrasive sound to break their silence.

She entered the child’s room and shut the door tightly.

—

Her eyes still felt swollen from tears shed the night before, lying in bed next to the warmth of the only one she’d give her life to protect.

And protect her she would. It had been a difficult decision, having weighed the dangers against one another. She was well aquatinted with what the outside world had to offer.  The dwindling storm had given her plenty of time to consider her options as it died over the next day and in to the night.

Staying in range of this monster, raising her daughter in that house, was not an option. If she had to choose a path of corruption for the girl, let it be one she was familiar with. Men could be viscous in their own right, but at least a mortal’s weapons were limited, and not some unknown magic used to bleed a person out.

The barn was clear of any bodies, yet when she turned to tend to the stronger of the two horses, it’s imaginary presence burned in the back of her skull. She hurried the animal out of the shelter as quickly as she could, strapped it to the little wagon, and packed her child in with whatever she could grab while they still had the blessing of sunlight.

She had no idea where they would go. To return to her dangerous homelands was not an option. She simply had to find a safe place for her child.

—

Logically, he had not been surprised to rise and find himself utterly alone, the house in disarray. A hurried escape. He could have expected the muted, self-righteous anger he felt.

What he had not anticipated was the deep sense of disappointment, and a sudden loss at what to do.

He had spent the past few months working endlessly, tending to the fields, planning his next projects. The activities had been soothing. Nobody expected what he did not expect from himself.

To nurture and protect had been a refreshing change. Now, with the crops ruined from the past storm, he was having difficulty with the idea of cleaning the mess. After all, with the woman gone, what was the point? He did not require the product for nutrition. He did not need the profit.

Still, that night found him wandering the land, boots squelching through the earth as he dragged debris away from the ruined crops. He worked tirelessly, mechanically, well in to the morning. The sun rose and he spent a good half hour under it’s punishing blaze before finally admitting defeat. He paused before the empty house for a moment before turning on his heel toward the barn.

The animals scattered in their dens, hugging the far walls as he entered. A dozen pairs of eyes stared at him in silent reproach. Quinlan, unable to stand their company, opened the side door and allowed them to pour out in to the pasture, not caring to check and see if the fences were still intact.

He approached a stack of hay bales, reached forward and ripped at the ties till his hands bled, scattering the hay in to a makeshift med before collapsing in to the dust. He had not closed his eyes for a minute before he was sitting upright again, clutching his skull in his filthy hands, growling in impatience. In the stillness he felt the weight of loneliness, his frustration. Without anything left to distract him he would be forced to combat his self-pity.

Life could change so dramatically in such a short period of time. The night before had been almost relieved to enter the house, to brush over her mind and read the connections she had made. In truth her reaction was something he had worried over since this life began. Yet no matter how hard he worked against those harsher instincts to mold himself into a man, he could not contain the need to feed. The idea of her acceptance of that barbaric but necessary part of him… what a foolish idea. A child’s dream. Of course she would fear the truth, would seek escape. And who could blame her?

An important question: should he follow her? The thought brought an unfamiliar flare of pain across his chest. No. To follow her would push her further away. To make her stay would be torturous to them both. Why live under her resentment? Better to let her have her short life, to carry on as she sees fit.

He felt restless, discontent. He had tried to reach forth to that human part of him, and had failed. Two things were not meant to exist in such harmony- one-part predator, other part prey. There would always be a dominant side to combat his weaker nature.

Breathing deep the musky air, he lay back, pushed the yearning away. His stinger pulsed in a subtle reminder of approaching need. Closing his eyes again, he folded to a not-so-distant version to himself, a part that was well-versed in violent, animal satisfaction


	4. Discovery, part 2

He picked up the scent of a human male several miles north. Pulling the shade over his more human nature, Quintus relented to himself, relished the feeling of cool air against the raw skin of his throat as he tracked his prey. Heat registered through the trees, and the scent of smoke drew him closer.

The human was going about his business alone. How convenient. Red eyes tracked stumbling paces as the man moved, drunkenly towing a heavy bucket of water to his mare.

The dhampir followed close behind, treading lightly on catlike feet, letting instinct lead this hunt. The heat of the man’s fire shone like a beacon in the night. Quintus picked up the sound of a second heartbeat, larger than the first. The human huffed as he continued to a clearing, the chemicals lacing his breath marking him just out of stinger’s reach.

By the time he had set the bucket down before the animal, Quintus had completely ceased in his approach. All trace of the hunt had left the dhampir, and before the thought of action could fully form in his mind he had the man pinned against the rough bark of a tree, his fingers constricting the human’s quickening pulse.

The hunter’s struggling was ceased by a well-placed warning shot to his side. His donkey brayed in alarm, stirring dirt as it bucked against it’s restraints.

_Tell me. Where did you come across that wagon?_

This man was either impressively brave or a fool. His eyes darted to the left, where he’d parked his new possession. “It’s mine.”

 _Ah…_  Quinlan relaxed his jaw, let his mouth yawn open nearly twice as large as a man’s. He rattled his stinger for effect.  _I sense you’re lying._

By this point he did not need the man to answer to have the information that he wanted. At this close of a range, the human’s feeble mind showed him just what he needed to see: the watery memory of his wife and her child. The horse escaping after the scuffle and the tight, dirty bindings he secured them with. Then more men, many heavily armored, inspecting the women as the bounty hunter struck his deal.

_Where is the camp?_

He had effectively cut off a stream of senseless babbling from the hunter. “What?”

Quintus shook him, roughly, but kept his tone even.  _Where is the camp? Where you left the woman and child._ The man hesitated. Aggravated now, the dhampir reached deeper in to his mind so that his words would be perceived as louder, deeper.  _Do not lie to me._

“H-half a day’s travel! East! They’re from the mainland!”

The dhampir tilted his head, regarded the man as he now trembled in his grasp. He saw flashes of the camp leader, of women and children shackled together. Stone walls. Leather armor. Cold eyes, plentiful coin. Traitors to the empire.

The man’s legs twitched. His breathing came ragged, hands prying weakly at Quinlan’s fingers.

“Please… I didn’t know she belonged to anyone!”

_Yes… I suppose you didn’t._

He released his stinger.

* * *

 

The camp itself was clear of the main roads but relatively easy to find; the heady scent of man preceded the place for nearly a mile. It was centered in the debris of an abandoned stone fortress, fortified with guards and physical barriers.

It seemed that these men were making quite a profit on the island. Large stones were moved here and there, evidence of plans for refurbishment. It seemed permanent residence was a consideration.

That would have to change. Quintus circumnavigated the structure, noting the large slave carriages through a fissure in the wall. Overall, the place was moderately protected. There seemed to be much comfort in numbers.

He considered his options. The sun would rise soon- already he could feel it’s steady whisper as it neared the horizon. But he had yet to confirm the woman’s presence.

Planting both palms firmly against the stone wall, he lowered his head.  Inhaling steadily, he pushed his influence out, brushing over the many minds within. Nothing familiar. He grumbled as his psyche strained, pressing against invisible limits, before finally letting go, wincing as he rushed back in to himself.

He would have to enter the structure and search manually. Squinting a bit against the pain roaring between his temples, he moved southwest, toward a crack in the structure he had noted earlier, where he could slip past the guards.

Fighting through would not be an issue if necessary. Regardless of the woman’s presence he was bound by law to one day return to eradicate this business. If the men parading each entrance fought as sloppily as they stood guard, taking this place down would be no issue. However, for now, he needed to get inside. Away from the sun’s rays, where he could continue his search with stealth.

* * *

 

The sounds of human suffering echoed hollowly about the cellar, giving the place the distinct feeling of infinite space. Shouts of anger and anguish looped continuously- as soon as one sound died away, somebody else started the song anew. The air was stale, dank, and strongly influenced by human waste. Those closest to the ends of the halls had access to light via sconces, which burned continuously and brought gruesome shadows to life in their pale faces.

With her back pressed against the filthy cell wall, the woman sat with her child in her lap, caressing her matted hair. Her eyes were far away, glazed over in despair. Their cell mates had been removed earlier that morning; there would be more joining them soon. Even such, she didn’t expect to be held here for long. Not with her child coming to that sought-after age, with her small hands and endearing profile.

Last time, she had worried over losing her baby to disease- or worse. Now the danger lay in their separation. True, she was still young, with a delicate structure to her bones that many slave owners seemed to find alluring. But there was always that possibility, that chance, which forced her in to a state of near-meditation as she combated the terror.

She had run from an unknown creature to find a better life for her child. Now, with the memories of warmth, structure, and safety behind her, she was almost driven mad by consequence.

She shifted against the cold stones, releasing her ankles from the vice of her weight, welcoming the sharp influx of pain fresh blood flow brought. The last time she had found herself in a similar situation, she had drawn strength from the memories of her mother, her village, and her child’s father. But those things were far gone, separated from her by the cold knowledge of their fate.

Her most comforting memories now lay in a place of structure, where despite herself she had begun to feel safe. Her mind’s eye supplied her with the familiar vision of red eyes burdened with a type of wisdom far beyond her comprehension. Framed by scar tissue from violent acts probably unspeakable, with just the faintest hint of a familiar, far-away light-- a dulled version of something she once sought after.

In the past, such an influence had done strange but wonderful things to her heart, had drawn her forth to taste warm, sun-kissed skin. She would press herself against him, relishing the control she had over this tall, calloused creature as he set down his work tools and took her one last time in their small living quarters, her back pressed against the cool dirt floor as he kissed her again and again, winding her up until her loins twisted in blissful agony…

A wave of disgust brought her back to the present, shame rolling in her empty belly. There was no comparison between the two men- to insinuate such a thing was an insult to memory.

Swallowing hard against the compulsion to join those serenading death and misery, she lay her head back, closed her eyes, and prayed for sleep.

* * *

 

There was a strange commotion down the hall.

Actually, it was the lack of sound which alerted her. To her right, the sounds of company continued- wailing, coughing, prayers in languages she could not translate. To the left there was silence and a sense of alarm which pulled her to her feet.

The child, weakened by hunger, whimpered as she was hoisted up. She pulled herself closer to her mother’s familiar scent, not yet aware of the tension.

He came in to view, head trained at an angle so that he was already looking in to their cell, as though he fully expected their presence. The woman exhaled, legs nearly giving way with relief.

For a moment he regarded her, holding his silence, his expression unreadable. Both hands snaked from beneath his robes to grip the heavier support bars. He jerked the structure toward him, breaking the gate’s corroded hinges with ease. He threw the door bodily to the side, stepped through, and held out his hand to the woman holding her child.

_Come._

She hesitated only a moment, pulling the babe to her hip as his fingers clamped around her arm. He moved at a pace which required a bit of effort to maintain on her part, rusted bars and faces passing by in a blur. They were nearing the end of the hall when she made a noise and dug her heels in, sliding a few feet before he finally snapped his head to acknowledge her resistance.

_What is it? We do not have time to hesitate._

She looked at him with wide, almond-shaped eyes, a rich shade of brown.

“The others.”

He picked up her train of thought easily.  _I cannot guarantee your safety, or that of your child, if I have to occupy myself with them. Let it go. I can return later._

She wavered for a moment before her expression set. Stubborn. “They take people every day. We need to free them too.”

He glanced at the doorway. So close. Both woman and child were looking at him, mirror expressions of anticipation as they waited for his response.

He growled, then pulled her face close to his.  _If reinforcements come, you must get yourself to safety._

“Yes.”

_You must run. Do not look back, do not occupy yourself with others. You both come out alive._

“I will.”

_If they do reach you, you let yourself be captured. Do not fight. I will come for you._

She exhaled sharply, the scent of her breath familiar, tingling. She looked up at him, eyes moist. Something in his chest contracted painfully, and he shoved her away with a little more force than needed.

_Run._

* * *

 

Her insistence that he release the other prisoners had turned out to be a fair plan. Confused and distracted, the so-called soldiers scattered, their movements unpracticed and completely disorganized. Yet as malnourished as they were, as clumsy as they were, they had weapons and numbers. Even with their lack of muscle mass they still bested the efforts of these skeletal women and children.

When the last cell had been opened, Quintus moved with his usual speed through the crowd, ascending, weaving through bright patches of light left by the setting sun. He relieved a man of his dull sword and skewered him through the abdomen. With a flick of his wrist the human fell, gurgling, to the floor. Three of his comrades attempted to rush him and died with war cries half-formed on their tongues.

The physical and mental cacophony was limiting to his senses, and so every few meters he peered over the heads of others, trying to relocate the woman he’d come for. It took several wracking minutes for him to catch a glimpse of her, her form so far away she was nearly flush with the crowd, her thoughts brushing against him briefly, verifying her presence.

She had been a part of the initial rush of escapees, and therefore had been cornered by a group of moderately armored soldiers. While some of the men were scattered, rounding stray runners in to the growing pool, those guarding the crowd had their lances pointed inward to keep the ebbing wave of panicked prisoners at bay.

Quintus’s woman had been pushed to the front of the crowd. A soldier brought the sharpened point of his weapon too close to her child, and instinctually the woman batted at his lance with an open palm. The action was far from threatening, but the men were drunk on their perceived dominance, anxious for any outlet of their bloodlust. The weapon barer hollered, and two others closed in. There followed a desperate struggle, and the child was taken from her mother’s arms.

The dark woman screamed, the pitch of her voice curdling the dhampir’s insides- then was abruptly cut short by some unseen action.

Quintus dropped the twisted form of his latest victim, a vicious snarl gurgling from the depths of his chest as he pitched himself forward. Soldiers and prisoners alike threw themselves aside at the sight of his wrath, watching as those less fortunate had their limbs snapped like twigs under his boots.

The man holding the babe barely had time to register the pressure in his neck before his arms slacked. The child tumbled to the floor and found herself centered between the dhampir’s feet as prisoners pushed past the guards, flooding the hall. She grabbed at his boot and hoisted herself to her feet, standing on wobbly legs for a moment before strong fingers hooked beneath her tunic.

She caught a glimpse of her mother, lying still among the others, a bright ribbon of blood streaming from her temple. Strong muscles beneath her contracted as Quintus swooped and threw the woman over his other shoulder.

Then they were moving, objects and people passing with frightening speed, and the babe hid her face in the hot crook of her friend’s neck, comforted by his familiar scent.

* * *

 

It was full night when she came to, awakened by tiny fingers peeling her eyelids back. She stirred, feeling her back against a hard surface, and was punished by a bright lance of pain through her forehead. The child, oblivious to her discomfort, cooed as she climbed on to her mother’s abdomen. She bounced a few times, ignoring the moans of protest, face lighting with delight when the woman opened her eyes.

Wincing, the mother sat up. Several large burlap sacks were nestled around her. She was in her wagon, a fresh horse strapped to the front. Just beyond she made out the form of her husband, standing beside a tree.

He watched her pull herself to the edge of the wagon and tentatively touch her toes to the ground before speaking.

_There is a small sum in a leather pouch toward the front. It should sustain you until you are able to settle again._

She straightened her back, confused, and took a few paces toward him. “And you?”

 _I will return to my home._ He shifted his weight marginally, stance proper.  _I hope that there is enough here to pay off whatever grief you have suffered._

He bled from several wounds, pearlescent stuff which dripped down his long fingers on it’s way to the soil. She moved forward, reached for him- her fingertips registered his warmth for a fraction of a second as he took one measured step back, maintaining the distance between them.

Her hand clenched as she withdrew. “You are just going to let us go?”

_Of course._

She was quiet a moment, sorting through her thoughts, the pain, desperately trying to reach coherence. “This could be a trick.”

 _When have I ever tricked you in to doing anything that you did not want to do?_ He paused a moment, gave her a chance to respond. But she was too caught in his gaze to speak, muted by the strange raw thing she saw there.

When he continued his voice had a harder edge to it.  _I could have tracked you- found you far before I did. As it is, you are lucky that I happened upon the carriage._

Self-righteous anger flared at his tone. “So protective, yet you would release us so easily.”

His lip curled just slightly.  _I will not hold you against your will. You have made your decision._ He ignored the stuttered sounds of her protest, turned his back on her bewildered expression.  _You now have what you need. Practice caution._

“Wait,” but he had already faded in to the darkness. The babe fell to her bottom, reaching toward the space he no longer occupied, her tiny fingers grasping at thin air as she wailed.

The woman shook under the weight of her indecision. She retrieved her child and held her to her breast, consoling her but with difficulty. There was a heaviness in her gut, a strange painful feeling which rooted her in place, kept her from taking the wagon _._

“Quintus!” She had always known his name, somehow, but never dared to use it. Even as the syllables rolled off her tongue she imagined him so far away, back on that boat, his shoulders hunched against the pelting rain.

Silence followed as she waited, holding still. Then there was movement in the trees, followed by a familiar clicking sound. He didn’t come closer. She didn’t need him to. Her feet carried her through the cool morning dew, brought her several paces toward his unmistakable silhouette.

* * *

 

Several nights later he woke to find the baby tucked in bed early.

He lingered in the doorway, watching her tiny fingertips twitch in tempo with her dreams. A cool gust blew in from the open window, bringing with it fresh air. Quintus watched as it lapped at the bright heat of the child’s body, cooling her flesh through the thin blanket.

He stepped through and entered the room, heading for an old chest in the corner. It creaked softly on rusted hinges as he lifted the lid and reached inside for something warmer.  Beneath the first cover was the familiar pattern of the woman’s quilt, tucked securely away as she’d promised.

Such a senseless thing to lose his temper over. Then again, he knew himself well enough to recognize when his level of tolerance was burning low. It had been irresponsible to let himself go for so long without properly feeding. If he had been of sounder mind when that stranger came knocking…

It didn’t matter, he reminded himself as he covered the child. He could not change what had happened.

Turning his back on her in the woods- leaving her there alone- had been difficult. In truth, he was becoming frustrated with himself and his apparent lack of dignity. Why did he bring her back with him? He had resolved to let her be on her way- that was what she had wanted, after all. And Quintus had little interest in chasing after flighty humans.

He hadn’t anticipated the rush of relief he’d felt from her as he neared her cell. Couldn’t understand why stepping away from her touch had felt wrong. Didn’t realize that the sound of his name- spoken by her - had the power to root him to the soil, to shatter the hardened resolve which had pushed endless numbers of her kind to the brink of death and beyond.

Many of his years had been spent as the witness to or reciprocating acts of bloody violence. He had killed so often and with such skill that human death had taken on an almost dreamlike quality- something he considered natural and inevitable. Those under his charge rarely lived long enough for him to forge a true bond with. Even if they did, he had developed himself in to an officer of such legendary prestige that there were simply too many rungs of the societal ladder separating him.

Perhaps it was due to some illicit craving of his, or the sign of a new budding weakness within him, but living with this woman he had felt a contentment rooted far more deeply than he could ever recall. The chores were repetitive, but still required use of his strength, and provided new challenges. He would return at the end of his night to a home well lived-in, filled not with riches and war trophies but signs of a far more humble life.

With him resided one of the few young women uninterested in fawning over his physique, his prowess. She had been the first one to deny him physical pleasure, and he had come to accept that. Every morning he would unlace his boots and watch her body sway as she worked in the kitchen, her tender touches reserved for her little one, who grew plump and happy. Almost without thought he had begun to redirect many of his efforts to sustain this daily image.

The actions he had taken to preserve the life of this woman and her child had been as natural as though he were defending himself. Finding the wagon had set his path without question. At the time he hadn’t thought much of it, but now he was becoming unsettled by the realization that he had interests outside his own wellbeing.

This was a novel development for him. Meeting the Old Ones had instilled him with knowledge, yes, but also caused him to withdraw to a more familiar image. A far more simple manner of living. Did he know that his thoughts and actions could be so easily dictated by the happiness of another- of a mortal? Yes, he supposed he had… to an extent. He had grossly underestimated what this life would do to him. It created an imbalance in a creature who favored order.

The woman’s scent led him out the door and through the muddy flower gardens. He spotted her lithe form perched beneath a tree, one of the few to survive the storm. A pale blanket covered her shoulders. Her chin was tilted toward the stars, the pulse in her neck framed by slender tendons.

He stepped on a twig as he neared, purposefully let it snap beneath his heel. She lowered her gaze but did not appear startled.

_May I join you?_

She tilted her head forward, a strand of dark hair falling to her face. There was a restless unease to her presence, her aura markedly different from before. Knowledge had tainted her perception of him.

“I was hoping you would.”

He sat beside her, gave her respectable distance. A breeze blew his way, caressing his face with her familiar scent. Something twisted deep within him, and he quashed it. Habitually his mind glided over hers, tasting her confusion, before he withdrew, finding the sensation just as uncomfortable.

_Why are you not in bed?_

“I’m not sure.” Her fingers curled at the tips. “Will you have to report the activities of those men?”

He jerked his chin up in a type of nod.  _I already have. I expect to hear back soon._

They sat in silence a few moments, each feeling the other’s presence. Quintus waited, sensing that she wanted to speak.

“I have been a slave for so long that I seem to have lost perspective.”

_I do not consider you my slave._

She seemed ashamed, almost apologetic. “I would not have married you if it had been by choice.”

_Yes… I realize that._

“But I  _am_  married. To a man or creature I know close to nothing about.” She brought a hand to her chest. “There is something about you. Whatever it is, it speaks to my gut, tells me you are dangerous. But I have no reason to distrust you. I cannot forget what you have done for us.”

He tilted his head just slightly, regarding her heat in his peripheral.  _You choose not to listen to your instincts._

A short, humorless laugh. “I did listen, and almost paid dearly for it.”

_Perhaps the answer to your predicament is not so simple._

She reached forward and threaded her fingers through the thick grass. He’d long ago come to associate restlessness as a sign of anxiety in her.

 _Speak your mind,_ he encouraged, softly.

Still she hesitated. “Are you not going to tell me why you came for us?”

_I came upon information related to your predicament. I chose not to leave you there._

“But why not? I left you. You had every right to let them take me, or worse.”

He exhaled, a deep  _churr_  accompanying the breath from his chest. He let her interpret the noise as she would in order to give him a moment to choose his words.

 _The child,_ he finally answered. A half-truth. The woman considered this.

“She  _has_  taken to you,” spoken with neutral tones, yet he could feel her unease at the idea.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t know how to explore the answer to her question by himself, let alone under her dark gaze.

“Well, despite the reason… I never properly thanked you for coming back.”

His throat rippled in the strangest way when he growled. He was looking out in to the field at shapes she could barely recognize.

The lady chewed on her thumbnail. Her eyes fell on the wide setting of his mouth, the thick structure of his jaw. She looked to his throat, eyes hovering just a moment over the bulge there before continuing down to his calloused hands, relaxed at his sides.

“I just don’t have anything to offer you but words.”

_You do not think that words are enough?_

There was something in his tone, a subtle warning. But she had thought hard the past few days, and was unwilling to back away from the peace she felt at her decision.

“I would like to offer you my services.” She glanced at her empty palms. “It isn’t much, but it is all that I have.”

His silence was deafening, and at first she thought he was considering her offer. Then she became aware of a grumbling so low that she had to strain to hear. The sound grew with his apparent displeasure, alarming her.

_Does every action I make require reciprocation?_

She stuttered. He was rumbling with such intensity that she could feel it in her chest. “I-“

He turned to her, expression eerily flat despite the acidic tone of the voice in her head.  _Do you think that I am looking for something in return?_

“Please!” Her hand went up as though to physically push his wrath back. She swallowed against the pounding in her chest, tried to quell the shaking in her fingertips. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Please. I wish I had something else to give you, simply because I am grateful.”

She held still, waiting, watching as his dark gaze flicked between her face and open palm. He finally seemed satisfied with whatever he saw there and relaxed back to the ground beside her, lapsing back in to irritated silence. She let his gaze go, still feeling the aftereffects of his agitation, wracking her mind for something to say, anything to upset the tension.

“Please, let me try to explain something.”

He didn’t react- it was almost as if she had never spoken.

“Before you took me in, the death and heartbreak I faced changed me in ways I never would have considered.” She glanced at him sideways. “I am no warrior. I was completely unable to defend myself against my first master’s cruelties. Though I suspected much the same behavior from you… I never received it. I thought,” She paused and turned her face toward a light breeze, let it brush the loose strands of hair from her face. “I thought for sure that you would kill me, the night I asked that you not take me to bed. But you didn’t. And from then on you have done nothing but provide a place of safety for my child and myself.”

“From the bottom of my heart, thank you. For your hospitality, and for saving us several times over. I let my fear and my suspicions take control of my judgment.” She hugged her sides, uncomfortable, unsure if her attempts to pacify were working. “I left you and broke our marriage contract. But for whatever reason you did not punish me. And still I cannot help but feel that I owe you.”

He remained quiet for so long that she began to wonder if he was going to walk away.

 _You are deciding to commit to me, as a slave…_ despite _the fact that you fear me?_

“I am.”

_What about your daughter?_

She considered this. “I’d like to believe that there are worse men out there.”

Something strange flickered across his face. She shifted to her knees and hesitated a long moment before reaching forth to cup his cheek. He allowed her to turn his head to face her.

She ran her thumb beneath his eye, rubbing over the dark pigmentation forming there. His breathing rattled, startling her in to pulling her hand away. Collecting herself she peered at him, remembering how sunken features had become during the storm.

“Are you hungry?”

The answer was simple, almost casual.  _Yes._

There was no residual fear; she had discovered this part of him, and it remained an unchangeable fact. Calmly, she said, “perhaps you should go hunt.”

He rumbled, and she couldn’t quite tell if he agreed with her. But he didn’t move from the spot, eyes trained to her face. She returned the look.

“Or… is there something else you would like me to do?”

 _Yes,_ he mused, _I suppose there is._

She waited his on word, breathing deeply, pushing the anxiety in her chest down.

He shifted, spread on to his back, looking up at the stars.

_Sing for me._

He had caught her completely off guard. “Sing what?”

_Anything you’d like._

She wracked her memories, searching, came up upon an old tale the village elder used to sing to the little ones. All the while he remained on his back, expression set to something she couldn’t quite interpret. His relaxed posture was so contrary to what she was used to seeing.

She sang, pulling the sounds from deep within her chest, basking in the familiarity of her language. Slowly she unraveled, tension leaving her as she immersed herself in her nostalgia, voice cracking just slightly as she released the last bits of her crumbling resolve, let them fall to the ground beside her feet. Lighter now, she poured herself forth, drew upon the ghostly memories of color, scent, and touch and let them fuel her.

She finished the last verse, let the satisfying ache in her throat expand as the last syllables rolled past her lips, releasing the last few words in to the night. There was a few moments of quiet following before the familiar chirps and whistles of life continued, as though the night had paused to listen to her song.

He was still lying on his back, his head turned in her direction, eyes heavily lidded. One hand lay relaxed over his chest, which rose shallowly with his breathing.

 _Beautiful,_ murmured so softly in her head that she wondered if she imagined it. He was making a strange sound, a deep rolling noise which warmed her in the strangest way, had her crawling across the dewy grass without much thought until she was leaning over him.

He reached up and tentatively brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. She let his touch linger on her cheek, the rough calloused pad of his thumb tickling her cheek, lighting a sense of yearning within her. She leaned in to his touch, feeling the heat of his face against hers, her lips hovering above his as she hesitated one last time.

Then there was a sudden and firm pressure across her chest, and the world jolted. She found herself sitting upright, staring at an empty patch of flattened grass. Disoriented, she turned her head, squinting through the poor light until she finally spotted him, several feet away. Something in his stance brought her instinctual fears back in a rush. Cold reality reinstated, she curled in to herself, shivering against the urge to run.

He spoke to her after several tense moments, the voice in her head flat, completely devoid of any previous affection.

_Return to your quarters._

Hand to her chest, she slowly uncoiled her limbs, rising on shaky legs. She wavered, shivering, eyes fixed on his pale profile.

_Now!_

The dew of the grass numbed her toes as she quickened her pace toward the silhouette of the cottage, feeling the heat of his gaze on her back.


	5. Kindling

The next several nights were punctuated by a profound silence from his human companion. The few glances he was able to capture were of her back, always fleeing his presence.

He  _could_  call to her. No doubt she would come.

But there was a strange sort of regret dampening his mood, and he began to favor the lack of company. The idea of simply having her obedience was bitterly unappealing anyway, a sharp reminder of his choice. There were no longer any soldiers, and no commanders. The firm structure of war relations he was well accustomed to- here, he was challenged by conflicting desires.

And, in the face of that which he failed to understand, he had reacted out of the safety of habit, shattering the moment of tenderness. He had never in his many years experienced touch in such a way that it facilitated anything but lust. Perhaps at the time his initial intent had been to push her away- to become the threat, to frighten her right back. He was woefully unaccustomed to the feeling of vulnerability.

Her mere presence had the maddening ability to throw him completely off balance, peeling away many years of crafted solemnity with little to no effort. Even understanding this he was having difficulty processing the appeal of that sickly-sweet feeling. A strange addiction, something which registered as alien in his mind, a fleeting, smoky concept… a sensation wedged somewhere between  _thirst_  and  _desire_ where there had been nothing before _._

So he left her alone. Obviously he needed this space as well.

More short days passed, yielding nights. The fields were cleared of remaining debris. Between their combined efforts green shoots were coaxed from the Earth. Wrinkled leaves slowly curled from the impression of their shells and stretched toward the open sky.

Quintus woke one evening to the pangs of his thirst. The upstairs was warm with the scent of the woman. She worked by the light of several candles, pulling her bone needle through thick leather. She would have continued oblivious to his presence were it not for the thick rattle of his throat, beckoned forth by the intoxicating sound of her heartbeat.

“Good evening,” she greeted, voice a careful monotone. She placed her work on the table and stood, wavering, her path to the bedroom blocked by his figure.

 _Please do not stop on my accord._ But he moved out of the way anyway, toward his chair by the doorway, to pull on his boots. He tracked her movement across the kitchen, listened to the low shuffling noises she made. When he looked up again, she had turned to face him, a dark mass of material clutched in her arms.

“Here,” she murmured, eyes focused on a point beyond him. She held the fabric strangely, in such a way so that he may take it without touching her flesh. “Your other tunics are becoming worn.”

She held it up. The fabric looked softer, less abrasive than that of his current, and stained a dark brown, almost black.

“I hope it fits.”

He stood slowly, the chair creaking in relief of his weight. His old tunic rustled against his skin, brushed up and over his head and he turned to drape it behind him. He relieved the top from her grasp, examining it, rubbing the seam between his fingers.

_You are quite skilled with a needle and thread._

She pulled her gaze from his abdomen, where the warm candlelight was highlighting divots caused by muscle and scar tissue, and jolted a bit to see the deep red hue of his eyes on her.

“Please, let me see,” she stammered, ducking her head away from his unwavering scrutiny. After a pause he obliged, straightening the hem down to his waist, holding still, his hands palm-out for her viewing.

She approached him tentatively, nodding her approval. “Good, I was afraid the sleeves wouldn’t be long enough.”

He rumbled, the sound too neutral for her to be able to discern approval.

A little more bold now, she peered up at him. “And the hood?”

He flipped the cloth over his head, keeping himself still when she reached up, the paper-thin skin of her wrist brushing his cheek. She pulled it even further, covering his eyes, his nose, but he could still smell her, still sense her heat. Her heart beat a steady rhythm, still paced too quickly. She wasn’t quite afraid of him9.

He pulled the hood back, finding in that moment the sensations to be too reminiscent of the hunt. She had stepped away, replacing the space between them.

“I noticed that, on the mornings you return late, your skin burns.” She rubbed her dry palms together nervously, waiting a few beats through his silence for the response that never came. “My hope is that between the stitch of this fabric and the dye you may have some protection.”

 _It is…_ He struggled between nurturing his already boisterous pride and the strange, weightless feeling of the moment. He glanced at his arms. Indeed, the length and overall fit suited him. _Suitable._

She chuckled a bit, not seeming to notice the break in her usual solemnity. She gathered the rest of her sewing from the table, leather and all.

“It is  _practical_. You’d be better off hiring women more acquainted with the trade _before_ your robes run ragged.”

She blew out the candles, leaving one lit for him, and he watched the blue smoke curl from burned wicks, tinging the air with it’s acrid scent. Something stung at the center of his chest, curdled, left him feeling restless.

He called to her just as she was about to disappear in to her bedroom.

_My attention is being called North. I am unable to opt out- and so tomorrow night I will travel._

A crease appeared along her brow. “How long do you expect to be away?”

He shifted his weight just slightly, unsettled by her reaction. Why?

_I am not certain. That will depend on what I am summoned for._

She frowned outright, pulling her hand closer to her chest. “Practice caution.”

He had dealt with situations far worse than she could imagine, but rather than point that out, he simply rumbled in response. Some of the heaviness in his chest eased, and he itched to remove himself from the source before it returned.

She bid him goodnight, closed the door, and left him alone in the wan darkness with his confusion and his thirst.


	6. Eminence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's about time. Even though I'm not very confident in the quality of this chapter it bothers me that it's been so long since I've updated online.
> 
> As always, much appreciation to Majinkura for reading this through. ♡

She saw dust on the horizon long before she heard the cavalry.

  
In the barn stood Quintus’s horse, chestnut hair gleaming, tall and proud like it’s Master. He’d left on foot nearly a week ago, encouraging her to use the animal when it came time for her to head in to town.

  
The urge to mount the steed and flee with her daughter was strong.

  
However, she knew that whatever company was due to arrive would find them in time. Knew the child was too big at this point to be discreet. Besides, this was his home. Their home. It wouldn’t do to abandon it.

  
She debated hiding the girl in the barn, then quickly dismissed the idea. Better to keep her close. What she did do was bury a large sum of the gold Quintus had left behind. Not all of it; that would be too obvious.

  
There was no doubt in her mind that trouble was coming to her doorstep. Men, soldiers… they were much the same. They thrived on lust and gluttony. She dusted her apron off and ventured out to the cool air of early evening, eyes trained on the horses as they neared. Only men, she noted. Though thankfully not nearly as many as there could have been.

  
A soldier dismounted his steed, spoke to her in crisp Latin and pulled a face when she responded, her command of the language clear but heavily-accented. One of the men murmured something she didn’t quite catch. Two others loped around to examine her home. She stepped back meaning to protest.

  
There was sudden stinging across her cheek and the world jolted. Pebbles ground against her knees as she struggled for purchase.

  
“He said no further, slave.”

  
She was no slave here. But these men were dangerous and far too close to her daughter. Straightening her spine she sat with her legs folded beneath her. She rose her gaze to meet that of her attacker.

  
He rounded on her, shoved the point of his boot between her ribs. The air in her lungs expelled in an ugly wheeze and she doubled over, barely holding herself upright on one shaking arm. Burning pain spread across her belly as she gasped for air. She shrank away instinctually as his shadow shaded her vision.

  
“You will speak only when asked to directly.” She swallowed hard against the lancet of pain up her flank, drawing shallow breaths of dusty air. A pair of worn leather boots stepped in to her view, blurred through a film of tears. “Is that understood?”

  
She curled her fingers in to the dirt. “Aye.”

  
He kneeled down, grasping her chin, jerking her face up. The man’s eyes were green, beard obscuring much of his face. He ran the pad of his gloved thumb against her jawline, gaze traveling down her neck to where the rest of her flesh was obscured by her dress.

  
“Good.” He yanked her standing, then turned her roughly toward the cabin.

  
The other soldier spoke up. “We are wary from our travels. As a good… citizen, you will house us.”

  
Defiance had not yet left her. “Regrettably, The Lord of the house is away at the moment.”

  
Sharp pain in the back of her skull and she was back on the ground again, shoulders twisting painfully as one of the men bound her wrists. Rough hands slid up the back of her thigh to cup her ass and squeeze before the soldier’s beard tickled her ear.

  
“So we’ve noticed.”

  
\--  
Decades to erode and yet the Capitol remained an awesome sight: a mosaic of marvelous architecture, teeming with the life she sheltered. Men donned decorated togas, women wrapped in silk. Their children ran the walkways, those born to wealthier parents had _bullas_ which thumped heavily against their chests.

  
The nights were short. Quintus wandered the streets, his hood pulled up and past his ears. He gazed at new additions to familiar landmarks and contented himself by stopping to admire displayed artwork. His days were spent tossing in restless slumber. He’d lie awake for hours, staring blearily at the ceiling and utterly alone with his own thoughts.

  
The dhampir rarely dreamt. Yet for some reason his subconscious continuously brought him back to a cool night several weeks before, made him relive a surge of something uncomfortably synonymous with panic as he pushed the woman away. One day his fevered mind melded the memory with a common scenario—placed him atop her, fingers hooking in to the soft flesh of her arms and her mouth open in a silent scream as he drained her…

  
He woke with a sharp intake of air, gut writhing with unease. He spent the remainder of that day pacing, and come next dawn gave up sleep altogether.

  
Too soon the pleasant tang of nostalgia was overcome by many darker memories. It seemed that around every corner was a landmark of significance; here was where they kept him a caged monster. There he had marched a pitiful band of survivors home after an unsuccessful raid. In the tunnels beneath this street he had shed his gladiator attire to sit vigil over the passing of his first true friend.

  
People passed by in a flurry of activity, oblivious to the atrocities of the past. The paved stones wore steadily with the passing of their feet. Only Quintus remained steadfast, and alienated as such.

  
Once he was established in town the Emperor made a show of his own supposedly tight schedule, putting off their meeting for days as he attended more pressing issues. It was old display of dominance the dhampir found typical and markedly tedious. He rejected the gifts sent to his quarters- armor and weapons and whores. He sent away the young warriors and virgins selected to satiate his thirst and instead roamed the nighttime alleys, taking time to scent and select his prey.

  
He left his quarters just after noon on the eleventh day, leaving behind the specially tailored robes in favor of his farmer’s attire. Had he been human the guards might have laughed him away; instead, they stood ridged as he pantomimed speech, requesting the Emperor’s audience.

  
A scribe was sent to him soon after.

  
“The Emperor sends his deepest apologies, L-legate, but there are pressing matters which-“

  
_Tell your emperor that I have been kept waiting long enough. I leave tomorrow at sunset._

  
Had Quintus been less aggravated he might have found humor in how easy it was to shed his humble farmer’s boots and step back in to the role of feared commander. Power rolled off his shoulders and soured the stomachs of the men around him, set them rattling in their overly ornate attire. If he truly wanted, he could simply make his way to the throne room. Kill every guard brash enough to stand before him.

  
Distantly he wondered how many that may be. If that memory had enough time to fade in their feeble minds.

  
The poor little man was left stuttering, scrambling for a response that wouldn’t leave him disemboweled on the marble floors. Quintus relieved him of his misery.

 _Tell the Emperor that, if it pleases him, I would visit him after supper in lieu of his whores and his drink._ He watched the words sink in as any remaining color drained from the man’s face. _Go now._

  
Admittedly it had been a mistake to pursue the meeting. Had he simply left the city the Emperor would have sent men after him, assigned a punishment for his audacity. Cumbersome as that would have been, it would have been much preferable to the alternative.

  
Naturally, the great Emperor was not alone when Quintus came forth that night. There were guards, yes, but the customary collection of beneficiaries were scattered about as well. His entrance only served to temporarily lull their merriment. If anything, the plump men drank with renewed vigor after his presence had been established, running rough hands down the thighs of their whores in an effort to assert masculinity. One man guzzled the rest of his wine before rising shakily to his feet, having somehow found courage at the bottom of his cup.

  
Quintus hadn’t paid the man much notice at first. His gaze was directed to the Emperor, who stared stolidly back, a self-assured feline believing itself to have caught a canary.

  
“…You are pleased with the arrangements,” the red-faced man had slurred, and it occurred to Quintus that he was vaguely familiar for his involvement during the early stages of his planned retirement. “Hear the land is quite fertile. And the wife?”

  
Something had begun to nag the dhampir in the back of his mind. He pushed it aside, humored the man by indicating that he found the arrangements satisfactory.

  
“Yes, she is quite beautiful, gazing past her savage nature. Which I imagine be an appeal to someone of your… to you.” The man was stupid on drink, had woefully forgotten his mortality. His lips were spread thin over yellowed teeth. “Then again, to live as long as the tales say you have-- how fortunate for you that she has a daughter.”

  
Quintus was quickly growing tired of this conversation. His stinger rattled in warning and was subsequently ignored. Chatter around the pair had lulled, the faux joviality in the air giving way to underlying tension.

  
“…And she, too, should have children. Girls. A line of wives bred to meet your more, hmm, intimate needs.” The man’s breath was sour. “Though I must say, Legate. There are rumors that perhaps a man blessed with your supreme talent lacks in… other departments.” Laughter as the man glanced behind him to include others in on the joke. Quintus clenched his jaw, the skin along his neck pulled taut around his stirring proboscis. The human waved a hand as though dismissing his comments as well-meant humor.

  
“Truly, I envy y-“

  
He was cut off as Quintus reached forth with surprising speed, gripping the soft flesh of the man’s gullet. Choking, spluttering, the human’s ruddy complexion bloomed in to deeper hues as blunt fingers scrabbled uselessly at the vice about his throat. Around them the bloodbeats of other guests rose sharply, a symphony appealing to the dhampir’s darker half.

  
Chittering softly to himself, Quintus tilted his head at the human flailing in his grasp. Frustrating how short human memory was. Recent events leading up to his current situation seemed to indicate that the people of the Empire had forgotten how Quintus had earned his titles.  
They needed a reminder.

  
He slid his jaw forward a bit, feeling the painless cracking of it’s release. His stinger swirled in his throat, rattled, further roused by the man’s fevered struggling.

  
Quintus was dimly aware of the exclamations around him as he sought the man’s pulse with practiced ease. Deep in his belly he felt a familiar flexing sensation and was rewarded with a warm rush as he began to drain the man’s life. The dhampir grumbled a bit at the bitterness of wine lacing the usually rich consistency of the well-fed and wealthy, then hastened his pull as he sensed the flutter of activity around him.

  
He released his prey as quickly has he had taken him, reaching to his belt and releasing his sword from it’s scabbard. A thin red arch hung momentarily suspended in the air as he swiftly withdrew his stinger, unsheathing his weapon as he turned. The tip of the blade sliced cleanly through the first soldier’s neck, and Quintus took a step back as momentum carried the body to lay at his feet. Turning again he parried another man’s strike and drove his shoulder in to the polished wood of the human’s shield, sending the soldier stumbling back in to his comrades.

  
Quintus worked with his usual practiced efficiency. True his more recent days were spent shaping the Earth, but that was nothing compared to the decades spent perfecting his form. Within minutes the bodies of about a dozen soldiers littered the polished floor, their blood pooling about the exsanguinated form of their lord.

  
The hall had gone silent. A few guests had fled and seemed to have alerted more of the imperial guard, who stood with weapons bared along the entryway. Quintus threw them a cursory glance and lowered his blade.

  
At the other end of the room the Emperor had risen from his throne. He stood patiently and waited for the bloodied creature before him divert its attention his way. Holding Quintus’s red gaze he extended an arm, twisting his wrist and pointing his thumb to the ground.  
An uneasy wave of laughter fluttered from some of the remaining patrons and Quintus twitched, struggling to hold his fury at bay. A gesture from the Emperor sent his guards to work filing people out of the hall.

  
“Quintus Sertorius,” the Emperor began, descending the stairs with a rather unnecessary flourish of his cape. “What an _honor_.”

  
\---

  
He traveled with haste, driven by paranoia borne from his years at Rome’s service. The inevitable boat ride had soured his already labile mood, made him impatient as he huddled on deck, decidedly placing himself away from the ocean’s threatening depths. Through the night and in to the day he watched the shoreline bloom from the horizon, his posture ridgid and unwelcoming and serving to keep the crewsmen from entertaining their curiosities.

  
The boat had just gone ashore when he grabbed his belongings and stepped casually over the edge of the bow, ignoring the surprised exclamations of the crewmembers. Once on the sand he continued his stride immediately.

  
Impatience drove him on without much sleep. When he did rest, he woke early, coming to full consciousness with barely a flicker of his eyelids. He’d spent over a week playing a politician’s assinine games; that was over a week’s worth of time he’d left his home unguarded had the Emperor decided to send a bit of insurance that way. From the way the man’s eyes had gleamed, he knew Quintus had something in his home he found worth preserving. A weapon to ensure the dhampir’s cooperation.

  
The half-breed’s gut twisted unpleasantly, riding up to his chest in the same manner it had been every time he thought of home. He clenched his jaw, clicked his stinger. Surrounded by nothing but trees he need not bother to smother the electric tingle of agitation surging up his spine, spreding across his nerves like wildfire and causing his head to twitch violently to the left.

  
It would be easy for a handful of men to bring the house down, to set fire to the fields. He’d worked hard on those, he told himself as a manner of explanation for his unease.

  
Following, there came the thought that the woman, too, had put much effort in to their home. His pace increased.

  
He finally broke to the clearing of his land late afternoon his fourth day of travel, pulling his senses taut over his surroundings. Detecting no strangers he relaxed minimally, tension bleeding from his shoulders and allowing exhaustion to rap bare knuckles against the far wall of his consciousness. The soles of his feet burned in concurrance.

  
Apparently the woman and her child were having some sort of quarrel. The babe’s voice was shrill with frustration, her mother’s voice a low murmur as she edged closer to losing her patience.

  
Only two voices here. Two familiar bloodbeats. Finally inside his home Quintus’s shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly as he filled his lungs with air, relishing the feeling of having this burden lifted.

  
The sound of small feet slapping against the wooden floors had him opening his eyes again. He stepped fully in to the room just as the child rounded the corner, skidding to a halt, her expression slacked with surprise. She stood naked save for her (rather filthy) tunic grasped tightly to her chest and her hair, down from whatever fashion her mother had pinned it in, stuck out wildly around her face.

  
Quintus didn’t miss the way her eyes darted from him to the door and back again. Scheming. So much like her mother in appearance yet endowed with a streak of rebellious tenacity.

  
He then thought of the rich senator’s comments and any humor he might have felt at the situation turned to ash.

  
He reached out with his psyche, brushing against hers in greeting, mildly surprised when her only response was to lift her gaze to his. He pressed his thoughts gently to hers, needing no words to form his question, having formed this form of communication between them before she had any real grasp of language: was she behaving?

  
The guilty drop of her gaze spoke volumes. She flinched a bit at her mother’s voice from the back room, beckoning.

  
Perhaps if he were human she would have been able to slip past him. She was in his arms before she’d even reached the landing, letting out a yelp of surprise at the way he turned her to face the way she came.

  
Having heard the commotion his wife rushed in to the main room, cheekbones flushed with the remnants of her aggravation. Something in her expression made Quintus pause but she was quick to regain control, settling in to her usual neutral expression.

  
She called to the child again, who stomped her feet in frustration. Evidently in his absence she had gained full mastery over the word ‘no.’

  
Choosing not to intervene further, he watched the woman entertain the debate a bit more before resigning to carry her child back toward the tub. The child’s wails heightened in pitch following a splash, and he could hear the woman: “ _this is what happens when you carry on like that. If we waited any longer, you’d be taking an ice bath.”_

  
He entered the washroom as the woman began on her daughter’s hair. Stubborn as the head it grew from, the curls refused to let the water take, instead letting it bead and fall toward the vat.

  
The stool he chose creaked under his weight. The woman glanced up at the noise but didn’t offer him anything straightaway, instead tapping on the child’s chin to signal her to tip her head back.

  
“Apologies for the commotion, my Lord.” Quintus had a sudden thought: he didn’t like her tone. It was the same she always used toward him, and nothing like the way the woman of Rome spoke to their husbands. “We weren’t expecting you for some time. We just received your message a few days ago.”

  
He watched her scrub grime off the babe’s face. The child, still thoroughly miffed at her predicament, glared throughout the entire process.

  
He thought about how empty it had felt to return to Rome. How strange it had been without her near. He said, _The Emperor did not have use for me after all._

  
He head bobbed in acknowledgement even as her hands hesitated. Months ago she would have been too afraid of him to ask. “And… that is all?”

  
_The throne is often occupied by men of questionable intentions._

  
She rinsed soap from the child’s head. The suds had a strong, spicy scent that burned and irritated his nose. Working more of the stuff in to the washcloth, the woman set to washing the babe from the neck down, her strokes quick and efficient.

  
“A man of your stature and with your reputation…” He wondered how she’d heard of his reputation. More importantly, what she’d heard. “One would think that the intent would be to drive you back under his services.”

  
He’d been gone just shy of three weeks and returned to a child who said ‘no’ and a woman who suddenly felt comfortable prodding at his lies. Taking in to consideration the fact that he could have easily traveled another four or five days… perhaps his haste _was_ justified.

  
The rest of the bath was completed without further conversation. He left as she was draining the water, finding the scent too heavy in the small room. He stepped out on to their stoop and tilted his head up toward the stars.

  
Inside he could hear the familiar murmuring of the girl’s bedtime routine. He huffed a bit, content, and closed his eyes as the woman began her song.

  
He didn’t leave his spot even as he heard her return to the main room, humming to herself. Soon she would retire as well. With the sun finally set he could see most clearly the work she had continued in his absence. She’d done well.

  
The door behind him creaked ajar, and he could hear the rustling of her simple tunic as she came to stand near him. A featherlight touch to his elbow and he turned, guarding against the near painful flush he felt at the sight of her with her hair down. Without her scarf to hold it back her scent was strong even outdoors. It cascaded down over her shoulders, a rich black, shining subtlety in the moonlight.

  
In her hands were a pair of leather boots.

  
“I’m slightly better at footwear,” she offered, holding them up to him. “I believe they’re the right size. I took an imprint from your current pair.”

  
He took them from her, mulling over a response.

  
She continued, “Your old ones are torn. Mud gets in and now they smell even when dry.” There was a hint of laughter in her eyes, a glimmer which lasted for a fraction of a second before it disappeared. He had the sudden, rediculous urge to chase it back.

  
Instead, he chuffed out a sigh.

  
_This is very gracious of you. But… you needn’t worry about taking time to appease me._

  
Her lashes fluttered a bit when he spoke. Distantly he wondered what his voice may sound like in her head.

  
“You do not like it?”

  
_It-_

  
“I can learn to craft finer articles, if that would please you.”

  
_That is not what I said._

  
“Very well, then. You’ll keep it.” She chewed the inside of her cheek a bit, debating whether or not to say more. He waved a hand at her, urging her to speak.

  
“Well… You don’t ask for anything.” She ran a hand through her hair, shaking the curls looser. There was heat high on her cheeks. He bit lightly on his tongue to keep his stinger from rattling as she shrugged. “I’m sure you would wear your clothes ‘till they’re nothing but rags. The least I can do… is learn how to stitch for you.”

  
_You shouldn’t feel as though this is expected of you._

  
The glimmer of amusement was back, even though he was sure he hadn’t said anything particularly funny. “I do it because I want to.”

  
He was silent for a moment, considering a response. Her heart beat quickly in her chest, betraying how nervous she felt. Perhaps she was having second thoughts about challenging him earlier? Or maybe she thought he didn’t like the gift.

  
He huffed air out through his nose, conceding defeat.

  
_If it makes you happy. But… do not worry too much over me._

  
The look she gave him next was… the ache in his chest grew stronger. Without warning, he was slammed with the compulsion to pull her close. The feeling was far more potent than it had been all those nights ago, when he had rejected her touch. He held himself still, willing it to pass, torn between acting on desire or once again fleeing from it.

  
Her tender expression changed slightly and she quirked the corner of her mouth up in a half-smile. She ducked her head quickly, heat rising up her neck, not realizing that with her actions she was pushing the dhampir closer to madness.

  
She seemed to debate with herself for a moment, keeping her gaze directed away from him as she spoke. “I am relieved that you decided to come home.”

  
He had no idea what was happening. Did not know how to make it stop. Every action she made threatened to crack his resolve… and he had no idea what he was even holding himself back from. Feeding? His stinger was suspiciously flaccid in his throat, silent. He needed to be alone, to ponder this in solitude.

  
Hours ago he had run doggedly through the brush, craving her company. Now he had it, and he wanted her away.

  
Somehow, though, he could not bring himself to dismiss her. Every thought he had on the matter brought forth the image of her face, the look that she gave him that night when he barked at her to leave. No. That was not what he wanted to do.

  
She turned and padded to the doorway, and he could have cried out with relief. The thought of such weakness brought with it a wave of disgust.

  
“Goodnight, my Lord.” Standing in the doorway, her voice was like silk. Did she know she was doing this to him? “I hope you find some respite after your long travels.”

  
The door shut. He held himself ridged until he heard the floors of the child’s bedroom creak, the rustling sound as she let herself beneath the covers. She’d left his bedroom open to him.

  
He turned and stalked off the stoop, dropping the boots as we went. He broke in to a run, needing to burn off this fresh wave of energy.

  
He was no longer tired.


	7. Ambiguity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I write a chapter of this I worry that I don’t have Q properly in character. And yet… book Q, who I think I pull from most for this, seemed very dry. Also, like always, I have committed to telling myself that I do not care as I post this update.
> 
> WARNING for those who are triggered by (potential) scenes of sexual assault or rape.
> 
> Thank you to all commenters and for all the sporadic kudos I’ve been getting over the past month. 
> 
> Thank you to essenceanddescent for attempting to hoist me out and away from my writer's block.
> 
> As always, thank you to my dear majinkura for the beta. :*
> 
> Reminder that I don't own The Strain or related characters, and that I don't profit any from writing this fic.

 

_Weeks prior…_

  
Slender fingers grabbed her by the forearm, digging in to the soft flesh. The child’s cry of pain was cut short as her mother wrenched her closer.

  
Behind them the men rushed through the front entrance to their home, filling the space with their sour smell. Their boots left dirty marks on the floors, eyes glinting as they looked all around, looked at her. The child grasped her mother’s skirt with her free hand, using the material to hide her face from these strangers.

  
The knit of the clothing obscured much of her vision, yet it was apparent that the man who approached them next was big, his voice rough and guttural. He spoke the same flowery words her mother used with their master.

  
They went downstairs, to the room the little girl wasn’t normally permitted to enter. At first the air smelled cool, like dirt and oiled leather. With the man down here that changed to horses and smoke and something sharp she couldn’t recognize.

  
He walked around. She wached him in the dim light of the lanterns; if she cracked her eyes just right, he’d think she could see. He started touching things. Throwing things with polished surfaces which glinted briefly as they sailed through the air. The noise was tremendous. Upstairs the others must have been doing the same; there was a cacophony of banging, crashing, and shattering above.  
Soon the man began to roar with anger. The pale skin beneath his shaggy beard was now a violent shade of red and he panted between ragged screams. He ripped a shield from the wall and threw it as hard as he could- the ringing sound it made hurt her ears.

  
That was when her mother knelt beside her.

Something was going to happen, she said, and it was not for little girls to see. She had to face the wall, like this- and no matter what, no matter what she heard, she had to wait until it was over and her mother said it was okay to look. If she wanted, she could cover her ears- in fact, she should do that. Just like this.

  
And then the woman began to pull away, and a horrible feeling crept in to the girl's chest. She knotted his fists in to her mother’s skirt, her gaze imploring. The man yelled louder.

Her mother untangled her hands, turned her to the wall, kissed the crown of her head. She’d be right down here with her.  
So, trembling, the child pressed her forehead to the cold wall and squeezed her eyes shut.

  
…

  
She crossed the room carefully, stepping over her husband’s belongings scattered about the floor and wary of the man still rifling through. Heart pounding she perched on the edge of the bed she’d never slept in, smoothing her skirts in an effort to distract trembling fingertips.

  
There were various weapons scattered about in the wreckage. She eyed one nearby with an ivory handle and a dark blade slightly longer than her handspan. Even if she were that lucky, she’d never be able to fend them all off.

  
So she returned her dark gaze to the broad back of the group's supposed leader. She didn’t have to wait long till he noticed she wasn’t where he’d left her.

  
“The fuck are you looking at?” Spittle clung to the man’s whiskers. His eyes had changed from outside; he was feverish, now. Wild.

  
An entirely different kind of dangerous.

  
She lowered her gaze immediately, slumping, a good submissive slave.

  
“Apologies, my Lord.” She didn’t have to force the tremble to her voice. “I was being foolish, wondering about your punishment.”

  
She toyed with the frayed strands of her garment and waited- either for more pain, or him to take the bait.

  
He began to advance on her. “Punishment.”

  
It wasn’t a question. She’d answer it like one.

“Y-yes. What you may have done to-" he stopped as her words registered “…to be forced here, my Lord. To this house.”

  
The heat in his gaze died down a bit. He sneered and spat at her feet. “An’ what makes you think I was forced?”

  
She tilted one shoulder back in a type of shrug. “This house is cursed, my Lord.”

  
The man’s face contorted to a deeper snarl, his right hand reaching back to toy with the wicked head of his battleaxe. He covered the space between them in a few strides, reaching for the soft flesh of her neck.

  
“You think I’m some sort of dim-witted cur?”

He gave her a shake and released her back on to the bed. His hands went to his belt as she coughed a bit, watching her gaze flicker between him and her child. “I can think of something better for you to do with your mouth.”

  
“I do not lie.” For a moment she struggled against him and he deflected her resistance by slapping her arms aside. She gasped despite herself when he hauled her back to a sitting position, lining her up with his half-masted cock. The babe whimpered from the corner.

“Surely you’ve heard stories before.”

  
Something in the man’s gaze wavered. He paused, fingers flexing in her hair.

  
“Men have suffered for less than this. If you harm us… I cannot even begin to imagine what punishment waits.”

  
“I know the stories, woman.” The soldier’s stare was hard. “My father fought for the General.”

  
She fought the urge to sneer at the sense of honor this man was implying. Instead, “Whatever payment you have been offered… is it worth facing that sort of creature?”

  
“If you harm us in any way, I am certain that the wrath you’ll suffer will triple anything you could imagine to do to me.” He looked angry again, but at least he seemed more in control. She spoke before he could form a response, “But- if you leave us now, I swear to you that I will not speak of this.”

  
Anger quickly turned to something akin to amusement, and he scoffed. “And what good is your word?”

  
With her face still inches away from his dick, she stared up at him cooly with her almond-shaped eyes. “That is your wager, my lord.”

  
\---

_Presently..._

  
She came to with a sharp intake of air, gasping against the prickling sensation along her spine. In the darkness it took her a moment to regain her senses. Covering her face with hands she sighed, squirming uncomfortably in her sweat-soaked nightwear.

  
It was unclear what, precisely, had woken her. Though given the familiar heaviness on her chest, she had an inkling of an idea. The sickly-sweet feeling of nostalgia superimposed by dread would be difficult to shake.

  
Her mother had visited her tonight. Her foggy profile was somewhat easy to conjure up, creased with worry lines and the glower of disapproval she had often worn in the months preceding her death.

  
Somewhere in the background loomed her father, always a sensation rather than any other form of tangibility.

  
As was her habit her arm stretched out toward her daughter’s side of the bed, sliding under the mass of covers beside her and in to vacant space. With a jolt the woman sat up, sweeping the blankets aside, sighing in exasperation as she threw her legs over the bed.

  
The doorknob rattled gently in warning before the door was opened, shining a beam of low light across the far wall. As it expanded a familiar hulking shadow stretched across the room.

  
_She is out here._

  
Plucking at the gown from there it was stuck to the skin of her belly and backside, the woman quickly pulled a blanket off the bed to further cover herself.

  
The child was already in his arms when she made it out to the kitchen, wrapped in a wool blanket. Quintus obligingly tilted her so that her mother could catch a glimpse of her face, relaxed in sleep.

  
With a sigh the woman stepped closer, tucking a stray curl behind her baby’s ear.

“Apologies,” she breathed. The child had been up in the night before, yet this was the first time she had managed to sneak off without alerting her mother.

  
His silence was wrought with tension, and she peered up at her companion. His face was drawn with fatigue. “I hope she was no trouble.”

  
He shifted the child back in to his grasp. In his arms she looked frail, doll-like.

  
_She was fine._

  
Another beat passed; he seemed to be waiting for something. Finally he moved, angling himself fluidly around her and toward the basement door. She frowned at his back as he passed their usual bedroom.

  
On his way he indicated the empty table with a jerk of his chin.

  
_Sit._

  
With the child safely in bed and the door closed firmly behind him Quintus strode back in to the living area. He picked wood from the stockpile and added it to the fire, stirring the embers in an attempt to entice them toward fresh fuel. His demeanor was markedly different from the night prior, and as the quiet stretched the woman shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  
“I must apologize again for any disturbance my daughter may have caused.” She watched him coax the flames higher. “You could have woken me.”

  
He didn’t answer straightaway, rising from his crouch to come back to the table. His words, when they came, were devoid of any infliction. _Yes. But she is no trouble._

  
Again he seemed to me looking at her expectantly. His posture, though formal and military at baseline, seemed ridged and overly composed. The woman shifted in her seat, uncomfortable under the weight of his attention.

  
“Something is troubling you, my lord.” She wasn’t asking. A quiet dread bloomed in her belly. He folded his arms behind his back.

  
_You had company while I was away._

  
Of course he would know. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat and directed her gaze down to the table.

  
_My bed reeks_. The last word was punctuated with a quiet rattle.

  
She shook her head with a sigh, conceding. “I should have been more thorough when cleaning.”

  
_You did not tell me._ A hint of accusation colored his tone.

  
She nodded, toying with a loose thread at the edge of her blanket. The wood popped merrily in the hearth, spilling orange light in to the room, making his long shadow flicker and dance across the table.

  
_Why_?

  
She drew a breath. His scent had returned to the house, dry leather and some earthy fragrance she couldn’t quite place. She’d caught whiffs of it while he was away, found the scent strangely soothing in his absence.

  
She hadn’t thought much about his wrath when he eventually returned home. That had been on purpose. Any man would have felt… _encroached upon_ by the presence of the others. She had no reason to believe that he might be different. And she had no idea how she would handle him, because she wasn’t confident in how he would react.

  
For that matter, she still wasn’t certain.

  
“Your arrival… surprised me.” There was truth to that.

  
**_No_**. She flinched at the way his voice resonated inside her head, creating a pressure between her ears that was slow to fade. He tilted his chin down and closed his eyes, brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. It was eerie- the look on his face his voice in her mind with the absence of actual sound.

  
_There were no exchanges. No messages._

When she continued to stare at her hands he slapped a palm down on a support beam. The resulting bang made her jump, her eyes darting toward the closed basement door.

  
_Tell me why._

  
She shook her head.

  
_Woman_. No ‘shouting,’ but a tone of warning.

  
“You were… you had an audience with the Emperor.” Quintus growled low in his throat, moving with fluid grace to the opposite side of the table. She stumbled over her words, “You n-needn’t worry about what was happening here. At that time.”

  
He leaned forward slowly, placing one of his hands on the tabletop to support his weight. The worn wood beneath his palm creaked in protest. She continued speaking, hoping to deter his response a while longer.

  
“My lord… They knew you were gone.” He grit his teeth at this, the thin skin on his neck tensing. Beneath the milk-whiteness parts of his throat slithered against one another, producing a familiar rattling sound. “It would not have mattered. By the time you received notice, traveled back here-“

  
_I left the horse. You could have run._

  
She shook her head. “I’ve run before.”

  
He fixed her with a look of exasperation. _That would have been entirely different,_ he admonished.

  
“They _would have caught me._ ” She tapped her hand on the table to enunciate her words, then curled her fingers in to fists when he scoffed in return. “Do you not-“ She cut herself off and continued again, reigning in her petulant tone. “Please realize that I have _experience_ in this.”

  
_Yet for the girl to be-_

  
She stood so abruptly that her chair tipped precariously on it’s hind legs, her own hand slamming down on the tabletop as she hoisted herself up. She turned toward the bedroom door to find him already standing in her path, towering over her, his ambient heat brushing against her cheeks. He scowled down at her, grumbling a low baritone of warning.

  
_We are not finished_.

  
Her teeth clenched as self-preservation battled against her fury. “I will _not_ sit there and be spoken to as though the safety of _my child_ does not impact every decision that I make.”

  
_I have seen-_

  
“I do not care.” The soft brown of her eyes darkened as her anger began to steer itself. “I do not care about your _experiences_. I have my own. Do you know what they have taught me, General?” She waited a beat, glaring up at his stony expression.

  
“They taught me that chasing me down would have been a _game_ ,” she finally spat. Her vision was beginning waver at the edges, and a familiar tight ache in her throat left her cursing inwardly. “To them we would have been a _sport_.”

  
He leaned closer. _So. You let them through._

  
“You speak as though I had any say in the matter.”

  
He shifted minimally on his feet, throat working a bit as he seemed to swallow. He glanced away for a moment, running the palm of his hand over his face. It was the least composed she had ever seen him.

  
_And_?

  
Her initial thought was to ask him what his experience told him happened next. He exhaled sharply through his nose, and she started at the feel of his hot palm cupping her face, firmly directing her gaze to his. The firelight cast deeper shadow to the already significant rings beneath his eyes.

  
_Do they live_?

  
She opened her mouth to deflect the question but he seemed to read her intent, clenching his jaw and glaring so furiously that the half- truths died on her tongue.

  
“Yes.”

  
A sharp nod, and he was across the room and unlatching the chest housing his gear a moment later. He pulled his sword, sheathed in it’s scabbard, from the meticulously sorted gear and began to tie the leather straps over the thin material of his tunic. It hadn't been a day since he had put all of this away.

  
“What are you doing?”

  
He didn’t bother to answer. After some rifling a dagger was produced from the depths of the chest; this was secured to his belt. She took a few tentative steps his way.

  
“You’re not thinking of going out there.”

  
He glared at her tonw. Months ago she would have reeled under the look, bowed her head in quiet acquiescence. Now her apprehension kept her rooted in place as she gestured wildly toward the window.

  
“It will be bright soon!”

  
_I am quite aware._

  
She stuttered incredulously for a moment. “They left _weeks_ ago!”

  
He snorted at that, hands ghosting over himself as though checking for anything he’d forgotten. She scampered after him as he headed for the front door, her heart beating frantically in his ears.

  
“They didn’t harm me!”

  
He paused a moment, thin white fingers ghosting the doorknob, then spun about-face. She nearly crashed in to him with the momentum of her own advance. Without warning he shot his hand forward, pulling her left forearm from beneath the cover of the blanket. The bruises were yellowing, fading… she wasn’t trying to hide them. She hadn’t the night prior. But he had been so distracted that he had failed to really look at her, damn it all.

  
She tugged against his grasp but Quintus would not relent. Through the skin to skin contact he could slip further in to her consciousness; her distress jumbled her thoughts, but made them louder. Watery images leaked in to his mind’s eye- faces he’d never seen. Fear that wasn’t his. Disgust, anger, guilt.

  
Her free hand was on his, picking desperately at his fingers, and he realized how tightly he was holding her. He relaxed his grasp, focusing at her dark eyes as she stared up at him, imploring.

  
“This is absurd.” Interesting, he mused, how her apparent frustration led her to drop her normally polite pretense. She hovered her hand in the air between them, as though wanting to touch him . “You haven't been home a full day!”

  
_Any louder_ , he warned, _and you will wake the child._ She stared up at him through dark curls and took a shaky breath, stepping back from him. Her wrist remained in his lax grasp.

  
You should have told me, he repeated. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears and she shook her head, helpless and frustrated.

  
“I swore that I would not.”

  
He grit his teeth as he tried and failed to contain the compulsive twitch. She slid her hand from his grasp and gripped the material of his sleeve.

  
“They are long gone, my lord.” He could feel her blunt nails through the rough fabric of his tunic. There was a pleading edge to her tone. “You need to rest. You can take my bed. I’ll cover the windows.”

  
He frowned down at her. _Yo_ _u ‘gave them your word?’_

  
She bowed her head, lightly tugging him forward. It was like trying to move a marble pillar. “Come.”

  
Once again he caught her chin in his hand and lifted her gaze back up, his ring and pinky finger settling near her pulse point.

  
_Why_ , he asked, bringing himself closer, _would you commit to lying to me?_

  
“I didn’t.”

  
He released her again, unsettled by the way her eyes grew distant at his approach. His movement seemed to shake her back to the present.

  
“They knew you weren't home. I’m… unsure if they knew who you are.” She looked up at him, licking dry lips. “But they were looking for something.”

  
He growled. _And you swore you would not tell me…_

  
“If they left. If they left us unharmed, I would attempt to keep your..." She hesitated, color blooming across her cheekbones, then continued lamely, "wrath in check.”

  
He stared at her for a beat, then looked askew with a single, cough-like laugh.

  
‘ _Unharmed_.’

  
She narrowed her eyes at his apparent amusement. “Yes. Speaking from _experience_ , things could have been much worse.”

  
Quintus sobered at that and chuffed a sigh. He turned his dark gaze to the open window, where heather-blue light was beginning to appear through the crooked shapes of the trees.

  
He sensed her heartbeat quicken moments before her fingertips grazed the worn leather strap across his chest, and stilled.

  
She watched his face warily as she undid the ties, leather and metal tinkling faintly as they swung free from his form. She caught his sword by the strap and let it’s sheathed tip touch the floor. Hesitating just briefly she moved to his belt, finding the buckle there and releasing that, too. His silver dagger with it’s thick leather sheath and belt came free and she gathered it in to her arms.

  
They stood in silence across from one another for a moment. She swayed lightly on her feet, considering her words.

  
“You are angry with me.”

  
He growled at her, low and throaty. In truth, he wondered now why he wasn’t _more_ angry. Perhaps she was right and he was more tired than he realized.

  
That thought brought a bone-aching weariness, as though his body had been waiting for his mind to acknowledge it’s needs.

  
“I deserve that.” His belt was a tangled mess in her grasp and the blanket was pushed back along her forearms. Healing scabs and new pink tissue stood out amongst older scars, thin strips of shiny flesh visible beneath fine dark hairs.

  
He reached forward and relieved her of his blade, resisting the urge to remark on them. She was watching him still, her breaths even and measured, as though she knew he could hear the way her blood pressed against the walls of her veins.

  
He turned with some difficulty back to his chest, lifting the lid on it’s well-oiled hinges to mechanically place his sword back in it’s home. Behind him came the soft scrape of her naked feet against the floorboards, and she handed him the belt.

  
Exhaustion was very suddenly wrapping an iron band around his head, muffling the world around him. He grumbled and pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache, only looking up when he felt her fingers back on his bicep.

  
“Have you eaten?” Her voice was as soft as the night before. 

  
_Recently_.

  
She sighed, her grip turning more firm. “Come,” she said again.

  
He was low on strength to resist her at this point. The fury he’d been fueled by not an hour before had sputtered and died, leaving him heavy and aching.

  
He followed her willingly enough to the spare bedroom, sitting heavily on the mattress. He tugged his tunic over his ears and let it fall to a crumpled mess by his feet.

  
Her palm pressed to his sternum and he lay back obediently, shucking his boots haphazardly to the floor as he went. She shuffled around him a bit, pulling blankets to cover the windows, and he closed his eyes to her soft humming.

  
Then the bed shifted, and Quintus woke with a start, snapping his head to face her as she lowered herself to the bed. Lying propped on her side she studied him a moment through her lashes, her cheeks flushed.

  
She reached across the narrow space between them, her body tense with apprehension, to lay her hand upon his abdomen. It took him a moment to respond, his own pale and calloused hand covering hers. Quintus’s body felt heavy and sore- but where she touched him a flame lit in his belly, traveling north till it flared in his chest with a delicious ache. He tugged gently on her wrist, sensing she wouldn’t dare to come closer without his consent.

  
She crawled nearer, her heart beating a frantic tempo. Still on his back Quintus stretched his arm out and she responded by settling her head on his shoulder. Her sweet-spicy scent was all around him, now, and Quintus bit down on his tongue as she pressed herself to his side. He breathed out a steady stream, forcing the muscles in his back and belly to relax.

  
“Sleep,” she urged him, the tip of her nose brushing his neck. He felt his own pulse flutter briefly at the contact before her humming began to lull him further.

  
She might have said something else but he was sinking quickly, unable to offer her anything in response. Images flitted through his mind’s eye as he retreated further in to darkness, faces and sensations immediately forgotten as sleep finally accepted him to it’s warm embrace.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the ending was rather abrupt. I felt like I sat on this for too long, though.
> 
> I was hoping that this final season would restore some of my writing mojo, but alas. Not only is the vast majority of the content terrible (my opinion, duh), but there are some serious shit-slingers in the fandom. Not that my muses are all that present to begin with these days!
> 
> We’re down to the final episodes, kids. Buckle in. I’ll try for another update soon.


End file.
